Once and For All
by Schroe Dawson
Summary: A powerful newspaper giant looking for revenge. A brotherhood of newsies destroyed. An older brother looking out for his baby sister. A girl afraid of love. A boy no one ever thought would fall in love. This is their story. SpotOC.
1. Pulitzer's Revenge

_Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. Disney owns Newsies. I'm just borrowing the characters for my own plot. This mantra will, hence forth, always resound in my mind. Shall I proceed with the tale?

* * *

_

"Get up! Sell the papes, sell the papes!"

Lunch Money Higgins groaned, as did the boys around her. Kloppman gave Lunch Money a sharp tap on the forehead as he passed, shaking each newsie awake in turn. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Miss Higgins sat up, calling sleepily down to her brother, who was still determinedly asleep.

"Race, get the lead out!" Racetrack glared up at her in a drowsy fashion, annoyed at being so brutally awakened. He still hadn't completely forgiven his sister for becoming the only female resident at Kloppman's lodging house, despite the fact she'd been living there for nearly a year. Racetrack, as a rule, was a fairly laid back young man and always ready for a good time. But when it came to his little sister, his carefree demeanor went straight to Hell. Not only did Racetrack feel obligated to keep a paranoid eye on Lunch Money (not to mention all the boys she was rooming with), he insisted upon sleeping in the bunk below her and was constantly dropping hints that she should try working as a laundress… or anything girlier than a newsie. Lunch Money usually responded to these hints with a withering glare—the glare that Boots once compared to Spot Conlon's.

"If ya evah go ta Brooklyn, Lunch," he had said, "Don't show Spot Conlon that look—it'd kill him if he knew some goil had an expression as fierce as his." Lunch Money had just laughed uncertainly at this, not knowing whether Boots was serious or not, as she had never met Spot Conlon.

Lunch Money clambered out of bed, landing with a resounding _thud_ next to the bunk she shared with Racetrack. Around her, several cries of annoyance and protest went up at the great amount of racket she had created.

"Ah, shuddup." She snapped to the room at large, "Get goin', I gotta get ready." Lunch Money folded her arms across her chest as she waited for all the boys to clear out, still muttering groggily as they made their collective way to the washroom. Once alone, Lunch Money quickly began to dress. Her usual attire—trousers, a white, buttoned shirt, a dark wool jacket, worn black boots and a caddy hat, naturally.

To her brother's eternal embarrassment, Lunch Money could never be persuaded to don the traditional girl's clothing. Those awful long dresses were far too cumbersome to sell papers in. And how the hell would she manage soakin' the Delanceys in a corset? Despite her small stature (5 feet, one inch, on a tall day.), Lunch Money liked to think she knew how to take of herself in a fight. No denying, she could hold her own against a wuss like Oscar Delancey, but Lunch Money's temper had a very unselective screening process, and she habitually got into scuffs with boys twice her size. On such occasions, Kid Blink and Racetrack were typically the ones with enough sense to hold her back when she flew into a rage (which happened with alarmingly regularity).

After quickly pulling her dark curls into two braids, the 14-year-old newsgirl crossed the dormitory, stopping outside the washroom door. She gave it one sharp knock and called a quick warning that she would be entering the washroom, and that they'd all better be decent. Knowing of course, that the raised voices behind the door were too preoccupied to hear that a female would soon be among them.

Lunch Money pushed open the door, and walked into the washroom. It was a chaotic scene; half-dressed boys wandering about, fighting over the dry towels, some attempting to shave. This was no surprise; newsies are not known for their affection for quiet order.

"What's takin' you'se so long? We got papes ta sell!" She chided, annoyed that the circulation bell would be ringing in less than 20 minutes, and most of the boys still weren't even dressed. The instant her presence was detected, a chorus of angry voices and a barrage of wet towels drove Lunch Money out of the washroom. Ah, gotta love Monday mornings.

* * *

The trip to The World's circulation office was an ordinary one; everyone peppered up by the coffee the nuns had so kindly bestowed upon them, and ready to carry the banner.

"Race you!" Kid Blink blew past Lunch Money, glancing back at her tauntingly. Lunch Money sped after him, and a frantic contest ensued. Blink and Lunch Money sprinted over the cobblestone streets, not bothering to slow for innocent pedestrians and leaving all the other newsies in the dust. They were therefore the first to notice something odd at the circulation office.

"What's going on?" That was the question on the air, as the circulation office came into view, more and more newsies asked the question in confused mutters. The newsies of Manhatten were now gathered outside the gates, but there was a problem. The gates were closed. It was at least a quarter past, and Weasel still hadn't opened the gates. That had never happened before. He was always quite prompt. Not only that, but Lunch Money noticed that Weasel and the Delancey brothers were standing on the nearest corner, at a sort of makeshift counter, with a sign reading 'Newsstand'. They were selling papers.

Lunch Money was sure that hers was not the only jaw to drop. The one question seemed to fill her head: _What was going on?_

"Weasel!" Francis Sullivan (better known as Jack Kelly, or Cowboy, to friends.) pushed his way to the front of the assembled newsies. "Weasel! What the hell are ya doin'?"

Weasel laughed. The Delancey brothers followed the suit. Lunch Money felt her fists clinch involuntarily. Ooh, what she wouldn't give to swing one fist straight through Morris's stupid mustache.

"Well ya see, _Francis_, Mista Pulitzer thought it's be better for _The World_ to leave it's circulation up to professionals, not grubby little orphans. Meaning newsstands, ya street rats. I'll be sellin' papes from now on. So, effective immediately, you're all outta a job." Weasel smirked broadly as the newsies displayed utter outrage across their faces.

"You can't do that!" Lunch Money protested loudly.

"I beg ya pardon, but Mista Pulitzer can do whatevah he wants. And a strike ain't gonna help you'se this time neither—ya got that, goilie?" _Goilie. _It was a word Lunch Money couldn't abide. She had felt a ripple go through the group when Weasel had used it. Everyone knew that it was a near death wish to call Lunch Money "goilie". As Weasel's smirk widened to an impossible air of smugness, Lunch Money felt her blood boil. She started towards Weasel, with every intent of pummeling the stupid fat man into the ground.

"Why you…"

A hand firmly grasped Lunch Money's shoulder, pulling her back. It was Blink. He had kept Lunch Money out of enough fights already that he could tell she was about to endeavor to claw Weasel's eyes out.

"Lemme go!" She growled, jerking her shoulder out of Blink's hand. Blink was too quick for her though, in an instant, he had pinned Lunch Money's right arm behind her back and Mush had come to help Kid Blink contain her. She gave both of her friends a dirty look and managed a couple of good kicks in their shins before shaking them off with the promise she'd be good. The Delancey brothers laughed sycophantically.

"They've got us." Lunch Money heard Jack mutter. Then he added, in a louder voice,

"Come on, guys. Tibby's." He set off at a quick pace toward the restaurant, he and Racetrack conversing in low tones.

"Tibby's?! Without papes ta sell anymore, we can't even afford a glass a' water, let alone a lunch at Tibby's!" Skittery griped from the back of the queue. Blink and Lunch Money exchanged a look, both torn between amusement at Skittery's unending pessimism, and anxiety over their current unemployment.

* * *

"A newsstand!" Racetrack burst out, once the twenty or so newsies had filed into the restaurant. He was obviously agitated. "A newsstand! It's Pulitzer's final revenge! He's still spittin' 'cause of the strike last year, and now he's gettin' back at us! No extra aces this time fellas, no weighted dice on our side." Lunch Money nodded her concurrence, but looking around, she realized she was one of the few who comprehended what Racetrack had actually said.

"Could we had that in laymen's terms, Race?" David asked, rolling his eyes. Snipeshooter and Boots choked back laughs. Racetrack looked irritated at having to translate his gambling analogies.

"We've got no way out this time. Like Weasel said, striking ain't gonna help us—we're flat outta a job! They're eliminating the middleman and selling the papes straight to the public instead a' ta us!" Racetrack made a fist with his right hand and smashed it into his left palm.

"There's gotta be a way!" Little Les Jacobs piped up from Jack's elbow. Lunch Money doubted she had ever seen Jack without his living shadow, Les Jacobs, tagging along behind him. "Come on, Jack, you gotta think of something!"

Most of the newsies rolled their eyes or shook their heads at Les's utter naïveté (Lunch Money included) though she did notice that the restaurant had become abnormally quiet, as though everyone really did think, in their heart of hearts, that Jack would be able to think of something. Alas, after a moment Jack shook his head. The newsies around him seemed to deflate.

"Race is right," Jack said, his brow furrowed, "Pulitzer's got us. The only thing I can think of is ta leave _The World_ for a paper that hasn't switched ta newsstands."

"Oh come on," Lunch Money slammed her fist on the table, frustrated, "Pulitzer will have all them papes sellin' from newsstands by now! _The Sun, The Times_-- Whatevah Pulitzer says goes, in the newspaper woild. All them stuffed shirts listen to Joe." She glowered angrily at no one in particular. It was true, what she had said; Joseph Pulitzer was the most powerful man in New York, if he wanted to shut the newsies out and put in newsstands, it was only a matter of time before the other papers did the same.

"Well," Jack began slowly, "If there's any group a' newsies that ain't in any trouble yet, it's Brooklyn. We'd've heard if Spot Conlon were in trouble."

"What, you think newsstands ain't been set up in Brooklyn yet?" Mush asked hesitantly.

"Spot would nevah let them shut out his newsies. I'se bet you'se anything Brooklyn's still a place where newsies can woirk." Jack said confidently.

"C'mon, no newsie woirks in Brooklyn without approval from Spot Conlon. Those Brooklyn newsies would soak our skins if we'se sold in their territory." Skittery argued amid murmurs of agreement.

_Spot Conlon_. There was that name again. Since she had become a newsie, Lunch Money had heard the name crop up at least once a week. The name sounded ominous, the way the other boys appeared to fear him. At first Lunch Money had pictured the leader of Brooklyn as just a huge, stupid, thuggish newsie. But after hearing vague stories of his adventures, involving Spot's great strategic mind, that picture disappeared and was replaced with darkness. Just a faceless boy with the often-whispered name._ Spot Conlon_.

"Eithah way." Jack said, over the nervous mutterings that were quickly circulating among the newsies, "I gotta talk ta Spot." (Here a wide grin spread across Jack's face.) "So… who wants ta go ta Brooklyn?"


	2. The Great Spot Conlon

Everyone instantly shrank away from Jack. No one wanted anything to do with Spot Conlon. Lunch Money looked around in disbelief—were all of the boys too spineless to cross the Brooklyn Bridge? Were they really that scared of this Conlon?

"I'll go, Cowboy. I'se wanna meet this Spot Conlon they're all so afraid a'." Lunch Money told Jack, giving the other boys a scathing look. Racetrack choked on his drink. After recovering from a brief coughing fit, he glared at Lunch Money.

"You ain't goin' ta Brooklyn." He gasped, massaging his throat. Lunch Money turned to face brother, her expression as incensed as anyone had ever seen it. _Who is he to tell me what I am or ain't gonna do? _The other newsies shifted uncomfortably watching the Higgins siblings stare each other down. The boys sitting near the pair started to edge away. Knowing Lunch Money, a fight was sure to break out.

"I'm a big goil, _Anthony Higgins_, I'll do whatevah I want." Lunch Money said coolly. Racetrack went red at the use of his real name.

"Sure, _Ava Higgins_, but the odds of me lettin' you go to Brooklyn are slim to none." Lunch Money's complexion darkened to match her brother's. She set her jaw. Now she had to play to her audience. Lunch Money had been arguing with Racetrack since birth—by this time, she'd learned a few tricks.

"Roll ya for it." Lunch Money knew Racetrack wouldn't be able to resist a good bet.

"Double or nothing?"

"Calling hard evens."

"Got it. Hard evens gets ya ta Brooklyn. Anything but—"

"I know the rules. Roll 'em, Race." Lunch Money interrupted impatiently. Racetrack extracted a pair of dice from his vest pocket, rattled them inside his palm to build suspense and tossed the dice on to the table. Both Higgins children leaned in eagerly as the dice skittered across the wooden surface.

"Double fours!" Lunch Money crowed, "Hard eight, Racetrack. Guess I'll be goin' ta Brooklyn." Racetrack gave his sister a last infuriated look before switching his focus to Jack.

"Then put me down too, Jack. I'm comin' too."

Lunch Money shot Racetrack a nasty scowl, but let it go. Racetrack could chaperone his baby sister to Brooklyn if it let him sleep better at night. Relieved the sibling showdown was over, Jack continued to plan his meeting with Conlon.

"And Spot'll be wantin' ta talk ta the Walkin' Mouth, so Davey oughta come along too." David rolled his eyes at the other boy's jeers. The nickname "The Walkin' Mouth" (originally coined by Spot Conlon, himself) had stuck to David Jacobs like a fly to fly paper, much to his displeasure.

"Sounds like we're ready to go then." The Walkin' Mouth nodded, "Me, Jack, Race and Lunch Money will meet with Spot Conlon to see if he can help us out."

"Yeah," Jack said, rising from his chair, "'Till then, make your pennies last, Kid Blink, 'cause there ain't gonna be no papes ta sell today."

* * *

It was high noon by the time David, Jack, Racetrack and Lunch Money set off for Brooklyn. Walking through the streets of Manhattan, Lunch Money was slightly unnerved by the noticeable lack of newsies on the street and the sudden presence of newsstands. Would Pulitzer stick to this new regime? Lunch Money wondered. Would the newsies of New York really be out of a job? The four newsies pressed on, giving each newsstand in their path a distinctly menacing stare, sometimes coupled with a growled threat.

"So, this Spot Conlon. Why's everyone so a'scared of him?" Lunch Money asked in an undertone, once they started across the Brooklyn Bridge. She and Jack were trailing David and Racetrack by a couple dozen feet, thus Lunch Money this as the perfect opportunity to get some more information about this venture without her darling older brother butting in.

"You'll see when ya meet him." Jack laughed, "Just remembah ta nevah mess with Brooklyn, Lunch."

"Jack!" Racetrack hollered excitedly over his shoulder, "Jack, come on, look what we got ovah heah!"

Jack sprinted the rest of the bridge, Lunch Money hot on his trail. They skidded to a stop just behind David and Racetrack, and immediately registering the reason behind Racetrack's excitement. Newsies were everywhere. There were no newsstands on this side of the bridge, just Brooklyn newsies shouting out headlines. There was a sigh of relief in the group. The newsies hadn't been wiped out yet.

"So, problem solved," Lunch Money grinned, "We just hafta sell in Brooklyn from now on. Let's go get woid to the others." She turned to start once more across the bridge, but Jack grabbed her arm.

"We still gotta talk ta Spot. See if he'll let us sell in his territory."

Lunch Money rolled her eyes, but followed the boys down a narrowed, badly surfaced road. They wound through a series of alleys, before coming to a dock that may have once been a functional pier for sea trade; now, however, it appeared to have been converted into a sort of playground. There were boys everywhere, about half of them swimming in the river, the other half sprawled out on the dock. All of them were twice the size of the biggest Manhattan newsie, and looked none too friendly besides.

Jack took the lead, followed by Lunch Money, with Racetrack and David fighting to take up the rear. They seem to genuinely fear the Conlon kid, Lunch Money noted curiously. And so, determined to show them that she was every bit as tough as any boy in New York, Lunch Money darted ahead of Jack, striding confidently along the pier.

"We're lookin' for Spot Conlon." Jack announced to the boys. He was scanning the faces of the Brooklyn newsies, searching for a familiar face.

"Ovah heah, Jacky-boy."

The voice had come from overhead, near the end of the dock. The four Manhattan newsies looked toward the source of the voice. Lunch Money's dark eyes fell on a figure perched high up on his makeshift wooden throne, silhouetted against the now-setting sun. The boy ascended the ladder at a regal pace, supremely unconcerned by whatever news his visitors might have brought. Jack, Lunch Money, Racetrack and David approached the base of the ladder as the boy jumped the last several rungs, landing face-to-face with Jack.

Now that he was this close, Lunch Money could clearly make out his features. His eyes were astonishingly blue, but cold and calculating. He wore a grim expression, his brow furrowed and his dirty blonde hair hanging in the aforementioned striking eyes. He sported a pair of bright red suspenders, and a black walking stick topped with an ornate gold ball. But what struck Lunch Money most was his obvious lack of height. He couldn't have been any taller than Lunch Money herself! _This_ was the feared leader of Brooklyn? _This _was the infamous Spot Conlon?

Jack and Spot both spit into their hands, but before they could shake, Lunch Money let out a short, involuntary laugh of disbelief. Jack, David, Racetrack and Spot turned to look at her. She smirked, ignoring the _shut-your-face-now_ look Racetrack was giving her and addressed Jack.

"Are you'se tellin' me that _this_ is Spot Conlon? Serious, Cowboy, this is the kid that all the fellas back at Tibby's were afraid a'—hey!" Lunch Money rubbed her ribs where Racetrack sharply elbowed her.

"Shut up, Lunch!" He hissed, a note of panic in his voice.

"Nah, let the goil tawk." Spot pushed past Jack and faced Lunch Money, head-on, "You were sayin'?" His eyes were narrowed, drilling straight through Lunch Money.

"I thought Spot Conlon was the great leader of Brooklyn." Lunch Money sneered, looking Spot up and down, "Not some scrawny little boy."

This last comment got a reaction out of Spot. His face was positively livid—like he considered Lunch Money's remark a hit way below the belt. But the expression disappeared as soon as it had come and was replaced by a ghost of a grin. He drew back, turning away from Lunch Money slightly to talk to Jack.

"Dammit, Jack, don't ya know you never hang on to goilies with mouths biggah than their knockehs."

It took the combined forces of Jack, David and Racetrack to hold Lunch Money back this time. Spot just stood back and watched her attempts to fight off the other boys, a small smirk playing around the corners of his mouth and his prominent eyes glinting with silent laughter.

"I'll murder ya!" Lunch Money yelled, enraged, "I'll kill ya wit' my bare hands, Conlon!"

"Cut it, Lunch Money!" Jack roared, picking her up off the ground, so that her feet kicked hopelessly in the air. She was red in the face, both from struggling against the other Manhattan newsies and yelling sporadic insults at Spot.

"Excuse us." Jack said shortly to Spot.

"Oh, by all means." His amused air was gone, and he now seemed ready to get back to business. Nonetheless, he took a step back, and Jack dragged a still struggling Lunch Money toward the edge of the dock, just out of Spot's earshot.

"Lunch Money. Lunch!" Jack shook her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. Lunch Money met his eyes reluctantly, breathing hard. "Lunch, for crying out loud! We need Spot's help, awight? Don't go makin' him angry. Ya don't want Spot Conlon for an enemy, so keep your mouth shut."

"We don't need help from him!" Lunch Money fumed. She couldn't believe this. That little weasel! "Why should we depend on that little rat?" Jack gave her a reproving look before turning to Racetrack.

"Try ta knock some sense inta ya sister, eh Race? Me and Dave'll meet with Brooklyn." Racetrack nodded, but waited until Jack and David had returned to their conference with Spot to start on Lunch Money.

"I. Will. Kill. You." He said through gritted teeth, "Lunch, the whole reason we're heah is to try to get a favoh from Conlon. Now you're pissin' him off and we'll be lucky if we ain't livin' on the streets by next week!"

"Awight, I got it." Lunch Money snapped. She was so sick of being constantly patronized by everyone. "I'll be a good little goil."

Racetrack snorted. "Yeah, fat chance a' that evah happenin'."

Lunch Money gave him an impish grin and her brother playfully shoved her as they returned to where Jack, David and Spot were quietly talking. The Higgins siblings rejoined the discussion in time hear the tail end of David's explanation.

"…And so, you see, we're a bunch of newsies with no papes to sell. And Jack and I were wondering, since Brooklyn doesn't have any newsstands, if we could sell in your territory."

Spot leaned on his cane, an intense look in his eyes, considering what David had said. At last he spoke. "Now, about how many newsies you got ovah there, Jack?"

Jack thought a moment, running through all the boys back at Tibby's. "Near forty, I guess."

"Forty? My deah, Jack! I'd say my gang comes to close ta seventy—that's more than a fifty percent increase. My boys would not be too pleased if Brooklyn were suddenly ovahrun wit' street rats from Manhattan."

"Spot, come on!" David pleaded, "What happened to all the newsies uniting together against Pulitzer and Hearst? We could be facing the extinction of newsies as we know it!"

"There ain't a union anymore, not this time—you're just a bunch of angry kids with no money. As for me, I gotta look out for me boys. Brooklyn still belongs to Spot Conlon." Spot frowned, and Lunch Money now fully understood what Boots had said about Spot Conlon's legendary intense glares.

"So that's it?" Lunch Money snarled, "You're just forbiddin' us from settin' foot in Brooklyn?" She sneered in great amusement that he would be so presumptuous as to bar Jack the rest of the gang from all of Brooklyn.

"Serious, Jack, does this goil evah shut up?" he didn't even bother to spare Lunch Money a glance and continued straight into his next sentence without taking a breath, "I won't, ah, 'forbid' any of you'se from sellin' in Brooklyn, per say. But my boys are pretty damn territorial about their corners. If any of you'se wander into one a' my boys' territories… well, I can't promise anything. They don't like their streets ovah crowded wit' othah newsies—and neithah do I." Spot folded his arms imperiously, "So, should you insist on sellin' in Brooklyn, ya bettah watch yerselves. I won't grant you amnesty; I won't be helpin' you out when all the newsies of Brooklyn start soakin' your hides."

Spot straightened and turned away, making it perfectly clear that the meeting was over.

"Spot…" Jack began, but the king of Brooklyn cut him off.

"Me mind's made up Jacky-boy. I'm sorry, and good luck."

Racetrack, David and Jack exchanged disappointed looks, but Lunch Money just shrugged. "C'mon, fellas, we don't need that lousy woirm." She was still steamed at Conlon. Lunch Money doubted she'd ever met anyone she hated with such a passion—and that included the Delancey brothers. Everything about Spot Conlon made Lunch Money want to knock him off his stupid dock. From his red suspenders, to his stupid walking stick; from his slingshot, to his crooked smirk. Ugh, she wanted to kill him.

"I still don't understand why you're all so a'scared of him." Lunch Money continued as they started back toward the riverbank, "Come on, I could take him."

"Lunch Money," Racetrack said sharply, "Drop it."

"Listen ta your brudder, little goil," Spot's voice came from the end of the pier, "The woirld can be a dangerous place when ya don't got Brooklyn on your side."


	3. The Choice Has Gotta Be Yours

"So that's it then?" Mush asked, crestfallen, "We can't in sell Brooklyn?"

"If we can't sell in Brooklyn, we can't sell at all!" Skittery exclaimed, "Me an' Bumlets an' Snitch looked all ovah the city for anothah pape that still uses newsies—Brooklyn is the last place in the city where a newsie can still woirk."

"Spot really ain't gonna let us in Brooklyn, Cowboy?"

"That's not exactly what he said," David nettled, "He won't _forbid_ us from selling in Brooklyn, but he said that the Brooklyn newsies don't take kindly to other newsies getting in on their territory—something to that effect."

"So, he threatened to sic his army of slingshot sharpshootehs on us if we are caught in Brooklyn?" Boots looked nervous about this prospect.

"_Sic the_ _slingshot sharpshootehs_," Racetrack muttered to Lunch Money in hushed tones, "Say that one five times fast." The Higgins snickered, highly amused with themselves as they both attempted the tongue twister.

David ignored their laughter and spluttering to address Boots's question, "More or less, yes, he did threaten us."

"I guess we ain't newsies anymore than." Snitch said mournfully, "Let's face it, Jack, Pulitzer's got us beat. Between him and Spot Conlon, we'll neveh sell in this town again."

The restaurant was quiet. Each newsie was deep in thought, either running through the thin list of hopeless ideas to save their job, or else studying the restaurant itself, remembering all the happy times that had come from it during their lives as newsies.

"Maybe we'se can get jobs at the newsstands," Snipeshooter suggested hesitantly, "It wouldn't be much different than bein' a newsie." Lunch Money couldn't believe it. Had he no loyalty? No pride? Would Snipeshooter feel no shame in working for Pulitzer as a blue-collar stooge? Then to her very great surprise, a few boys nodded and murmured their assent to Snipeshooter's idea—like they thought it had merit. Fortunately, Lunch Money wasn't the only one scandalized by this proposal.

"No!" Jack cried, "No! Woirk for Pulitzer?! You'se would all be happy gettin' a fixed salary from that tightwad? A newsstand ain't nothin' like bein' a newsie! It ain't dodgin' the bulls and runnin' around the streets, tryin' ta get away with some extra pennies and a good time—it's real woirk! Are ya outta your mind?!"

"Yeah, come on fellas," Crutchy said brightly, "Don't give up hope so quickly, we may find a pape to sell for elsewhere."

"And if nothin' else, we can just sell in Brooklyn." Lunch Money shrugged, as though stating the obvious.

"Now, ya see Jack, _she's _outta her mind."

"What? I met Spot Conlon. He ain't so tough." She said in what she hoped was a nonchalant tone.

"Lunch Money, if we hadn't held you back, you wouldn't even be heah ta talk about it." Jack said reprovingly. This statement caused an instant uproar among the boys.

"Lunch Money tried ta take a swing at _Spot Conlon_? Does she have a death wish?!"

"Are you crazy, Lunch?"

"What's a'mattah wit' ya, goil?!"

"Oh please, I could have taken him down." Lunch Money was adamant about this. Well really! Conlon was like two feet tall. Not even exaggerating. Despite still being miffed at the little incident in Brooklyn, Lunch Money was quite enjoying the attention she was getting from just taking a shot at Conlon. Maybe for once those boys would respect her as fellow newsie—not Racetrack's little sister, not some prissy little girl trying to be tough. Ever since joining the newsies, Lunch Money had had to fight the stereotypes of her gender, not to mention the denigrating position in Racetrack's shadow.

Jack, on the other hand was keen to get back to business, "Actually, I'm inclined ta agree wit' Lunch Money. Sure, sellin' in Brooklyn won't be easy, but it's all we'se got right now. It'll be a challenge, fellas." The other boys shifted uncomfortably in their seats, avoiding eye contact with Jack.

"It ain't woirth it, Jack." Skittery finally broke the shuffling silence.

"It ain't." Snipeshooter and Bumlets agreed in unison. Jack got to his feet, pacing in indignation.

"Spot was right, there ain't a union anymore, is theah? You're all too spineless to risk trespassin' in Conlon's territory? You'se willin' ta take lousy blue-collah jobs? You guys ain't woirkahs—we're all just street rats! Ain't that how ya like it?"

"Jack, we don't got a choice."

"Yeah, yeah ya do!" Jack argued, still pacing the length of the table that most of the boys were gathered at. "You'se got a choice, but you're takin' the weasel way out! Remembeh the strike, fellas, huh? If stick togetheh, not no one can bust us up. Come on, Davey, back me up." Jack turned to his best friend, who hesitated.

"Jack," David said quietly, also getting to his feet, "Me and Les, we can't sell in Brooklyn."

"Whaddya mean?!" Jack demanded, obviously disconcerted.

"I'm not taking my ten-year-old brother to sell papes in a part of town where they'll just beat him up." David told Jack firmly, "Besides, Brooklyn's way across the city from our apartment—it'd be a lot easier on my parents if I just got another job." Jack took a couple steps away from David, looking thoroughly disgusted.

"That fine." Jack snapped in a voice that suggested it was not fine at all, "Fine. I see you all would rather let the papes win this round. I can't say I blame you. But I'm a newsie. I sell papes. If I gotta go ta Brooklyn ta do it, then I'm gonna. Who's with me?" Jack turned to leave, his decision made. For a few moments no one moved. The remaining newsies just traded glances illustrating the surreal nature of the scene. Jack Kelly, their renowned leader, has just deserted them.

"I'm with ya, Jack." Crutchy struggled to his feet, grinning from ear to ear and limping after Jack.

"Me too." said Mush.

"And me." added Kid Blink.

"Me too!" Boots announced with conviction.

"Wait up, guys." Lunch Money said, leaving the table as well.

"Lunch—" Racetrack started in a disapproving voice.

"Race." Lunch Money gave her brother a look.

"Wait for me too." He stubbed out his cigar, and with final tip of his hat and shifty, wise guy grin to the boys still seated around the tables, he followed his sister out into the street.

Outside, the new, edited crew of newsies waited for a few minutes in the cold night air, letting the stragglers give the offer time to think over. None bothered to come out, to their disappointment. The other boys just stared out the windows, wondering whether Jack was really going to lead the small company into Brooklyn. A half hour later, the last of the Manhattan newsies were trekking back toward Brooklyn. Seven all told: Jack, Crutchy, Mush, Boots, Kid Blink, Racetrack and Lunch Money.

"Those wimps." Lunch Money groused as they slowly made there way though the streets, "So we'se gonna get roughed up a bit—who the hell cares? Conlon can't have _that _much influence ovah all those newsies."

Mush and Crutchy exchanged an incredulous look, while Kid Blink and Jack just laughed. Racetrack on the other hand, frowned and said in an uncharacteristically serious voice, "Look, Lunch Money, you're gonna go live in Brooklyn, against the orders of Spot Conlon. Of all people, you should be the last to underestimate him."

"Yeah, yeah. How many times do I gotta get that lecture today?" Lunch Money sighed dramatically, "Let's the just get back to Brooklyn and show Conlon we ain't gonna be scared off that easy."


	4. Black Eyes and Dark Alleys

Lunch Money would have rather died than admit it to anyone, but living in Brooklyn was more difficult that she had anticipated.

At first they were able to pass unnoticed, given that there was just over half a dozen of them in the whole of Brooklyn. For the first week, Jack and the gang kept a low profile, collecting their papes as quickly as they could, avoiding eye contact with everyone, before dashing off to a far corner of Brooklyn to hock the daily headlines. It was not a system Lunch Money was partial too—she would rather face Spot Conlon's army of "Slingshot Sharpshooters" straight on. This passive-aggressive strategy was not in Lunch Money's nature. But when their quiet resistance was exposed, Lunch Money felt she could have lived without the daily fistfights.

It was Jack who had blown their cover, naturally. He was too easily recognized among newsies to slip through a paper line without being detected. And he finally was discovered, halfway through their second week in Brooklyn.

"Hey kid." A big newsie grunted from behind Jack, "I know you. But you ain't from around heah, are ya? Where might I know you kid?"

Jack was quick to whip out a lie, smoothly and charmingly told (as usual), but he had attracted the attention of another group of newsboys.

"I know who that is, Headhunt," A rat-faced boy piped up, "That's Jack Kelly. The big-shot strike leadeh."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" The big newsie (apparently called "Headhunt") sneered, "And accordin' ta Spot Conlon, you'se ain't allowed ta sell around these parts. Neitheh are ya friends." Headhunt had already zeroed in on the alien group, realizing that Lunch Money, Blink and the others had been red-flagged by Spot Conlon himself.

Lunch Money didn't see who had thrown the first punch, but in an instant, a fight was underway, right there in the pape line. She turned around at the noise, unsurprised to see Jack, Racetrack and Mush standing back-to back, fists raised, surrounded by a dozen of Brooklyn's burliest newsies. Just scanning the crowd, it was obvious their odds were bad. Even Racetrack wouldn't have put money on it in a million years. But that didn't discourage Lunch Money in the least. She dove right into the mayhem, engaging in the brutal kicking and punching that passed between the two opposing forces.

"Crutchy!" Jack yelled urgently through his already-bloodied lip, "Lunch Money! Both a' you'se get outta heah!"

At this moment, Crutchy and Lunch Money shared an indignant look. A look that clearly stated _To Hell with him, let's go kick some ass!_ With a cry of effort, Lunch Money launched herself onto the back of a newsie who had Kid Blink pinned to the ground. She fastened her fingers around his neck, cutting off his air supply. He thus loosened his grip on Blink, who seized the opportunity to dish out a hard right hook. Both Lunch Money and Blink were back on their feet, grinning at the newsie that lay in between them. There was no time to celebrate; they were still surrounded by more newsies who wanted to do them in.

* * *

Given that it had been seven against seventy, Lunch Money felt their little renegade group had done rather well. Of course, doing 'rather well' when it's ten to one still isn't what anyone wants in a fight. A half hour later, Jack's gang regrouped across the street, panting and bruised. On the opposite side of street, the Brooklyn newsies did the same, though looked distinctly more cheerful than those led by Jack.

It was now that he chose to make his entrance. Spot Conlon turned on to the street, ready to collect his morning papers. He approached the two groups, that small, shadow of smile returning to his face when he realized what was going on. He gave his boys a quick nod of approval before turning to face Jack's group, grim expression back in place.

"So, Jacky-boy. You came back." Spot's observation was met with stony silence. "I told ya we didn't want our streets ovah crowded. I suggest ya take your papes and get outta heah."

"It's gonna take a little more than a few beatings to get us outta heah, Spot." Jack shot back, frustrated, "I thought you'd a' learned I was too stubborn for me own good."

"Enough jokes, Jack."

"I was serious, Spot."

"Awight," Spot nodded, his eyes intensifying into a determined glare, "Today wasn't too bad fa' ya. But think of getting' this soakin' everyday—anytime one of ya wants a pape ta sell, we'll be here." His cold eyes moved from face to face, focusing on each of them in turn. Boots, Racetrack, than Blink, Lunch Money and on through the newsies.

"Everyday, Jacky-boy, how long d'ya think your little friends can last? Let's be honest." Spot dropped his voice slightly, his eyes back on Jack, "You've got nothing. A pathetic bunch of newsies. There's what? Six of you? Maybe seven? And that includes the crip and the goil. Those two can't survive Brooklyn and you know it." If Lunch Money had paid enough attention, she would have noticed that Spot was not making fun of her and Crutchy. More, he seemed genuinely concerned about them, and was just stating the facts—a girl and a cripple _were _unlikely to fair very well in his part of town. Lunch Money only heard the stinging insult on the surface of Spot's words and her temper rose again. Blink was too quick for her again; he grabbed her upper arm firmly and whispered to Jack,

"We got our papes, let's cheese it before Lunch Money tries ta kill Conlon." Jack nodded and indicated it was time to depart. The seven street rats hurried away, giving the Brooklyn kids fierce glares and rude hand gestures.

Spot just watched them leave, silently basking in Brooklyn's momentary triumph. He knew they'd be back. Jack Kelly was not one to give up too soon.

* * *

No one said it out loud, but Spot was right. After more than three weeks of getting beaten up every morning (and then again most afternoons) the newsies began to lose heart. A routine had been established; no one sold alone, instead they ventured out in two divisions. Mush, Boots, and Crutchy all stuck together, while Kid Blink, Racetrack and Lunch Money split off into their own set. Jack alternated groups, torn between wanting to defend Crutchy, and needing to look after Lunch Money.

Lunch Money felt that Jack needn't have worried about her so much. She had Blink and Racetrack to do that for him. Honestly, she was quite sick of Blink and Racetrack constantly treating her like she was an invalid—it was always, "Lunch Money, don't get too far ahead of us!", "Lunch Money, don't start any fights today.", "Would you be careful, don't get yourself into trouble."

She greatly resented that they thought she couldn't take care of herself. Which was her motivation behind her action one night, about three weeks after their first fight against Brooklyn.

They had been living in an alley near the outskirts of town, trying to keep warm in the face of the cold November air. Meals were rare, but sacred, and the pile of ragged blankets even more so. Anytime there was enough spare money, they pooled their earnings and had a Friday night feast.

"Seventy-six cents." Racetrack counted up, pleased. "We can eat good tonight, boys." The others grinned and began to talk of what they should buy with the extra money.

"A packet of fish from the docks!"

"No, no, make it sandwiches from that café on Main."

"Bagels from the vender up the street."

It was much bickering before they came a conclusion. It doesn't matter what they decided on, as they never ended up getting to eat it, and the events that followed completely through such a meal from their minds.

"I'll go buy it." Lunch Money offered. Racetrack hesitated.

"It's kind of dark, Lunch." He said warily.

"And starting to rain." Boots added. Lunch Money scowled.

"Racetrack, fork ovah the money." She snatched the pennies out of her brother's open hand and stood. "I'm so, so, sick of all a' ya treatin' me like I can't do anything! I'm a goil, not a poircelain doll. Now, I'm getting dinner, I'll be back in bit." With a final irritable look around the alley, she stormed onto the adjoining street and disappeared around the corner. Jack whistled.

"Geez. Goils. I tell ya, fellas, never get mixed up with one a' them." He wasn't only thinking of Lunch Money at that moment, that was obvious, but the other boys said nothing and just shook their heads, exasperated. Goils.

Racetrack was right; it was quite dark. Lunch Money wove her way through the streets, bitterly cursing the boys for deciding on buying a meal from a café on the other side of Brooklyn. It was freezing outside. The frost had come early that year, and Lunch Money's wool jacket wasn't enough to stop her from shivering. She thought she must look rather pathetic limping along in the cold rain, barefoot, a few pennies in hand, with a blacked eye and a deep cut on one cheek from a scuff with Brooklyn's boys earlier that day.

It was likely that her pitiful appearance contributed to what happened when she turned the next corner. That combined with the natural poetry of her face. It was never said often enough, but Lunch Money was quite fetching. Her beauty was easily overlooked, given that her face was usually smudged with soot and dirt, and that if anyone suggested such a thing, Lunch Money's reaction would not be too favorable.

She started down the street. It was in a grim part of town; a tavern dominated the left side of the street, and the shadows cast about the road were deep and suspicious. Lunch Money quickened her pace. It was starting to get late.

A number of laughing, male voices broke the silence of the air, as a handful of young men exited the said tavern. They were probably in their early twenties, shabby-looking. And completely wasted. Lunch Money tried to avoid crossing paths with these despicables, but she did not escape their consciousness. One of them whistled. Lunch Money ignored them and kept walking, concentraing on the wet pavement beneath her. Another made a rather vulgar joke, and they picked up her trail.

"Hey, goilie, got a place ta stay tonight?"

"Yeah, yeah, goils as pretty as you shouldn't be left out in the cold."

Lunch Money was scared now. She looked neither left, nor right. She knew these young men were not going to be shaken easily, but there was no help within reach. All of her comrades were on the other side of Brooklyn. So, Lunch Money broke into a run, figuring she could outrun four drunken men. She was wrong.

Lunch Money felt a hand close tightly around her wrist and drag her out of the bleak light of the streetlamps. She could hear his friends laughing while they ran to help pin her down. Lunch Money yelled. She punched, she kicked, she scratched, she did anything she could to fight back. It was no use; her diminutive size, added to the fact that there were four of them and one of her, was no match for the awful drunken men.

She made a desperate attempt for freedom, but she had taken only a step when a searing pain shot through her foot. She had no time to wonder what she had stepped on, for the biggest of the drunks threw her to the ground. With Lunch Money still struggling, she felt fingers fumbling around her shirt and trousers.

"Hey!" someone shouted from the end of the alley, "You punks bettah clear out now, or you'll be answerin' ta Spot Conlon."


	5. Never Fear, Brooklyn is Here

Lunch Money was suddenly acutely aware of three things. One, the sole of her foot was in agony. Two, the rain was pouring harder than ever. And three, Spot Conlon was standing over her. She slowly sat up, checking herself for injuries and hastily re-buttoning her shirt. She wasn't too badly hurt—her wrist was bruised where one of the thugs grabbed her, and she had a couple of scrapes and scratches, but what worried her was her foot. Whatever she had stepped on when she'd tried to make a break for it was killing her. Spot glanced back to the opening of the alley, where he had last seen the men scamper away. They were indeed gone. Scared off by the king of Brooklyn.

"Those bums oughta loirn there's easieh ways a' getting undah a goil's skirt."

"I ain't wearin' a skirt." Lunch Money pointed out sullenly.

"Well, that _does_ present a challenge." Spot offered her a hand to help her up, but Lunch Money blatantly ignored it, struggling to her feet by herself. Spot raised both eyebrows, but took the insult in stride.

"Ya awight?"

"I'm fine. And I don't need you to rescue me." She snapped, lying through her teeth. She knew if Spot hadn't come along, she'd have been raped or murdered by now.

"You're welcome." Spot retorted sardonically.

Lunch Money ignored him and put a bit of weight on her injured foot. It hurt like hell, but she needed to get back to her friends. She tried to take a step, only gasp in pain as her leg buckled underneath her. She fell hard into a deceptively deep puddle that was overflowing the cracks in the cobblestones.

"Sit down, you stupid goil." Spot ordered, annoyed, "Lemme see. It's your left foot ya can't walk on?" He didn't wait for an answer, but knelt down on the ground next to Lunch Money. She sulked inwardly as Spot examined her foot. It was difficult to see in the dark and gloom, but Spot managed find the source of the injury.

"Ow!" Lunch Money cried, jerking her foot out of Spot's grasp. The foot made contact with Spot's chin and he swore furiously, rubbing the new bruise Lunch Money had created.

"What the hell was that for?" he demanded, "Look, ya got this huge piece a' glass wedged through the bottom a' your foot."

"Well take it out!"

"I would, except that if I try that, you'll just start bleedin' all ovah the street; ya need bandages and shit before ya can take it out. And I know I'm gonna get kicked again if I'se gets anywhere neah ya." Spot shrugged, wiping the rain out of his eyes. Lunch Money bit her lip, partially out of pain, partially out of anxiety. She was in so much trouble. She couldn't walk, the rain had completely saturated her clothing and soaked her to the skin, Racetrack and the others were probably worried out of their minds, and (worst of all) she was now indebted to Spot Conlon.

Spot stood up, looking around the alley. "Where ya stayin'?"

"Othah side a' town. 86th street." Lunch Money muttered.

"You'se gonna need help getting' back." Spot stated, shivering slightly in the rain.

"Nah, I can get back meself."

"That wasn't a question. You do too need help." Spot sounded impatient. Was this girl always so difficult about _everything_?

"I thought you weren't going to help any a' us if we got into trouble." Lunch Money accused him, mockingly. To this, Spot said nothing, for a moment. It was true; he _had_ told Jack that he wouldn't help any of his gang if they tried selling in his territory. He shouldn't go back on a promise like that. Spot wasn't altogether sure why Lunch Money was bringing this up now, in her hour of need. You'd think she'd be relieved that someone was offering to help her.

"I ain't gonna help ya. Consider this a disservice. Now, come on." Without further ado, Spot forced Lunch Money to her feet, pulling one of her arms around his shoulders. He positioned one of his arms around her waist to support her, making himself Lunch Money's human crutch.

"Okay, I'se got ya. Keep your weight off a' your bad foot. Walk." He instructed in a commanding tone.

"No! I can walk meself! Let me go!" Lunch Money protested. Spot sighed. Talking to this girl was like trying to reason with a two-year-old.

"Quit your bitchin' and walk." He said through gritted teeth, "I haven't got all night."

And so, grudgingly, Lunch Money took a tentative step with her right foot, leaning heavily on Spot to prop herself up. With a great effort, she hopped forward again, using the same foot. She winced with every hop; every action jarred her injured foot painfully. But they needed to keep moving. In this jerking, hopping manner, the two newsies hobbled out of the alley, into the damp streets of Brooklyn.

* * *

It was getting so late that it was becoming early. Midnight must have passed long ago, and they were still wandering through Brooklyn, both out of breath from the sheer effort of keeping Lunch Money on her feet. The rain hadn't relented, thus they greatly resembled drowned rats and were trembling in the cold. They were probably halfway to the alley on 86th where Jack, Racetrack and the others were sleeping (or, more likely, waiting and worrying about Lunch Money) when Spot stopped.

"We ain't gonna get ta 86th tonight." Spot told her, steering her off to the side of the street, into yet another alley, "We oughta wait here for daylight. It's dangerous to walk around Brooklyn at night. As I hope ya loirned by now." He added coldly. Lunch Money allowed Spot to lead her into the alley, where they both took a load off their aching feet, annoyed at his superior tone.

"Whaddya mean we ain't gettin' ta 86th tonight?" Lunch Money sulked as she carefully took a seat on the foul alley pavement. "They'se gonna murdeh me fa' stayin' out all night."

"Jack's a big boy, he'll get ovah it." Spot said unsympathetically.

"Jack ain't the one I'm worried about."

"Oh right." Spot smirked, "Ya big brudder ain't gonna be too pleased wit' ya, is he?"

"Don't know what you sound so smug about, Conlon," She glared in his direction, "This is all your fault anyway."

"_My_ fault? Higgins, how is _any_ of this _my_ fault?" This girl was unbelievable. He saves her life, and now she insists everything was all his fault in the first place?

"I wouldn't be livin' on the streets if you'd just let us sell in your damn 'territory'." She spat angrily.

"I ain't forcin' ya ta stay heah." Spot argued, "Why don'tcha go back home and loirn to sew or cook like a normal goil?"

"I ain't nevah gonna—" Lunch Money began indignantly, but Spot cut her off.

"Look goilie, I'm gonna save ya some time: I don't care about what you have ta say." He rolled his eyes in a martyred expression, "Do ya gotta argue about everything damn little thing? Just stop talking."

Lunch Money pursed her lips, but remained silent. If her foot hadn't been giving her so much grief, she would have tried to kill Spot by now. They both were fuming, sitting poker-stiff against a grimy brick wall, their arms folded and their mouths shut. Only the pattering of the rain on the pavement broke the obstinate silence. They were both too deep in thought to bother speaking to each other again. No good had ever come of any of their conversations anyway.

Lunch Money's musings slid in and out of focus as she started to doze against the hard, uncomfortable wall. Racetrack was going to murder her when he found out all that happened… how on Earth had she been so stupid? Out after dark, all alone. Racetrack would be giving her the older brother lecture from hell tomorrow. She could hear him now: _You just run off in the middle of the night! In Brooklyn of all places! Do ya have any idea how lucky ya are that Spot came along when he did?_ Lunch Money closed her eyes, trying to block the imagined conversation out of her head.

Spot had been keeping a watchful eye on the entrance of the alley, and hadn't even noticed that Lunch Money had nodded off to sleep. It therefore came as a slight surprise to him when Lunch Money's head dropped onto his shoulder. Spot glanced down at her sleeping figure. What was he supposed to do now? Lunch Money shivered violently in the cold. Hesitantly, as if scared to touch her anymore than absolutely necessary, Spot wrapped his arms around her shoulders in an attempt to keep her warm. His reservations multiplied as Lunch Money stopped shuddering from the cold and shifted in her slumber, now sleeping comfortably against his chest.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he seemed unable to switch off his brain and fall asleep. Too many uncertainties and questions circled his head. Spot couldn't stand Lunch Money, and the feeling was obviously mutual. So why had he even stopped to help her? Why was he escorting her back to her friends? Why was he doing any of this for her? In his heart of hearts, an answer to these questions surfaced briefly, but his brain silenced the notion before the thought could fully form. He hadn't become the respected leader of Brooklyn by acknowledging his vulnerabilities. He was Spot Conlon; he _had_ no vulnerabilities.

Spot relaxed ever so slightly, but still refused to give into the drowsy feeling that had suddenly overtaken him. The leader of Brooklyn sat, the sleeping girl enveloped in his arms while he spent the rest of the night awake and alert. And every so often, Spot would spare a glance at her; his eyes filled with an emotion that no one had ever seen Spot Conlon express. An expression that looked very much like fear.


	6. Love, According to Mush

"Higgins. Higgins! Wake up!"

Lunch Money cracked an eye open, unwillingly. She was stiff and cold and her regained consciousness only alerted her to the redoubled pain in her foot. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still clouded and dark. Rubbing her eyes blearily, Lunch Money sat up. Spot was already up, waiting for her to get moving.

"C'mon, Higgins. We'se still got a ways ta go." He was all business this morning, Lunch Money noticed as he seized her upper arm and hoisted her back to her feet. Or rather, onto her foot, given that she could only properly stand on one. Spot said nothing else, just began the long walk back to 86th street.

It was with gritted teeth that they made their way across Brooklyn. Lunch Money's teeth were gritted in pain, Spot's in annoyance that he had gotten himself mixed up in all of this to begin with. Whatever he had felt (or imagined he'd felt) last night had been effectively stifled and he was now angry that Lunch Money could have instilled any sort of doubt in him to begin with. While Spot determinedly avoided thinking about the previous night, and Lunch Money determinedly focused on moving forward, one pitiful hop at a time, the inhabitants of Brooklyn slowly reawakened and flooded the streets. With the arrival of businessmen on their way to the office, and housewives running their morning errands, the newsies appeared too. They made a point to keep well out of Spot's way, and their voices dropped to whispers as they passed.

"Hey, Roundhouse." Spot called to the boy closest to them. A small, energetic-looking boy with white-blonde hair scurried to Spot side.

"How can I help ya, Mista Conlon?" he squeaked nervously.

"Find a kid named Racetrack Higgins. About seventeen, Italian, not too much tallah than me. Tell him his sistah's al'ight, got it? She'll be on 86th street befoah noon."

"Yessir, I'm on it, Mista Conlon. Find Racetrack Higgins." The boy called Roundhouse nodded to show his understanding of his task and ran off again, stopping each passing newsboy to pass down the message or inquire as to Racetrack Higgins's whereabouts. Soon word had spread that Spot Conlon had a message for Racetrack Higgins; almost every newsie in Brooklyn had been passed the message and then carried it on in turn, so that eventually, it would reach Racetrack's ears.

Spot and Lunch Money heard none of it, though and they soldiered on toward 86th street. They did indeed reach the alley before noon, as Spot had told Roundhouse, and for that Lunch Money was thankful; in the last few blocks, she had been sure she was going to pass out from the pain in her foot. Just as they were struggling through the entrance of the alley, Lunch Money looked up at the sound of her name.

"Lunch!" It was Mush. He, Boots, and Crutchy were both waiting in the alley, looking extremely worried and sleep-deprived. Mush hurried forward, ready to knock Lunch Money over in an enthusiastic hug, but he stopped short when he saw her bloodied foot.

"Lunch Money, where've ya been? We'se been waitin' all night—What da hell happened to ya? Did _he_ do this ta ya?" Mush demanded, pointing a finger at Spot.

"Yes, Mush, I cripple the goil and bring her back meself jus' so you boys can try ta kick my ass." Spot said coolly, at last detangling himself from Lunch Money as he and Mush carefully helped her into a sitting position on the pavement.

"Are ya alwight, Lunch?" Crutchy asked, anxiously eyeing her injury.

"It's not as bad as it looks." Lunch Money told him imploringly, "I'm fine."

"She been sayin' that all night. She ain't fine." Spot said, rolling his eyes.

"Everyone'll be so relieved," Crutchy said brightly, "Racetrack an' Blink an' Jack, they'se all up in an uproar ovah ya. They went out searchin' everywheah fa' ya… Racetrack's gonna kill ya, ya know."

Lunch Money thought Crutchy could have future career in prophecy, because no sooner had the words left his mouth than they heard Racetrack from the end of the alley.

"Lunch Money! Thank God! Where the hell have you been? You'se okay?" he shoved his way through Mush, Crutchy and Spot to his sister's side. "I'll kill ya. What's a'mattah wit'you, goil? Wanderin' 'round Brooklyn at all houhs—you coulda been killed!"

"Race, I'm fine."

"Spot said you'se ain't fine." Boots shrugged. Lunch Money glared at him.

"Spot said…?" Racetrack looked around, registering for the first time that Spot was in the alley with them. "You! You did this ta me sistah, didn't ya?!" Racetrack leapt to his feet, looking furious.

"What is with all da accusations?" Spot exclaimed, taking a couple steps back, annoyed by Racetrack's paranoia, "I swear to God, next time I see a goil gettin' raped in an alley, I'se just walking past. It's too much trouble."

"_What?!_"

"You'se was raped?"

"I was not!" Lunch snapped defensively, "I got away."

"Yeah, thanks ta me." Spot sneered, folding his arms across his chest in an arrogant fashion. "And now that you'se all shown the proper gratitude, I'll be off. See ya fellas around." He started off, but Jack caught him by the arm, pulling him to one side so that he could have a private word with the leader of Brooklyn.

"I'se got places ta be, Jacky-boy. Whaddya want?"

"I wanna know if you've stopped bein' an idiot yet." Jack asked seriously, his brow furrowed.

"Beg pardon, Jacky? When have I evah been an idiot?"

"Come on Spot, we ain't gonna suhvive this winter. It's gettin' coldah al'eady; we'se dyin' out heah. You'se was right, okay? We'll die out heah. We can't handle the constant soakin's and sleepin' in the alley. And now we gotta worry about Lunch Money gettin' raped too?" Jack glanced back at the others, who were now concernedly conversing the course of treatment they should take for Lunch Money's foot. Jack continued in a tone that refused to be reduced to begging, but remained low and casual. "Our crips can't hack it out heah. Crutchy can barely walk nowadays, with all ya boys beatin' on him everyday, and Brooklyn's gonna kill Lunch Money—the damn goil refuses to be careful about anything. Ya saw what happened last night. Da least ya could do is let us sell heah wit'out ya boys beatin' on us, let us stay in the lodgin' house. Have a heart Conlon." Jack gave Spot a charming grin, hoping against hope Spot would cave. Jack hated this; Jack Kelly of all people, despised having someone lord over him, telling him what he could do and where he could go. But this was Brooklyn, and in Brooklyn you do what Spot Conlon says.

"Have a heart?" Spot mocked, a smirk twisting over his mouth, "I don't think I got one a' those." With those parting words Spot turned and strode out of the alley, his cold, unfeeling façade intact.

* * *

"Mush, you think about love a lot, don'tcha?" Jack asked earnestly.

This query was met with a chorus of snickers and chuckles from the rest of the group. It was later that day, just after sunset, all the newsies enjoying a meager dinner. Lunch Money's foot was now propped up on an old soapbox, the shard of glass having been neatly removed by Crutchy several hours ago. It had been an excruciating procedure, but her foot could now relax in its new dressing—a makeshift bandage out of Kid Blink's extra shirt.

"What?" Mush asked, both the question and the resulting laughter flying completely over his head, due to his fixation with keeping his soup inside that bowl, rather than in his lap.

"I _said_: 'Mush, you think a lot about love, don'tcha?'" Jack reiterated, rolling his eyes.

"Ya don't call me 'Mush' fa nothin', Jack. 'Course I do."

"Well, how'd'ya know if you'se in love?" Jack wanted to know.

"I dunno. I've never been in love." Mush admitted, "But they say there ain't a feelin' like it in da woirld. When ya foirst start out, you'se is both happieh than you'se evah been in ya life. And if you'se is really in love, you'se neveh fall out a' it, 'cause they say love is foreveh."

Racetrack made a face of distaste. "Why ya askin' Jack? Ya goil gotcha down?" he laughed at the image of Sarah keepin' Jack whipped like a carriage horse—a suspicion many newsies had of their leader.

"I dunno. It ain't too good if she refuses ta talk ta ya, is it?" Jack seemed absolutely serious.

"No, that ain't good at all Jacky—what didja do ta her?" Mush's voice cracked in his emphatic incredulity.

"Nothin'! Well, Sarah don't like me woikin' in Brooklyn—says it's too far away or too dangerous. And me an' Davey aren't really speakin' eithah. We had kinda a fight ovah this whole newsstand thing. So Sarah might be mad about that too."

"Sounds like you'se is ovah, Jack." Mush told him, "Unless you'se two is in love?"

"Ain't I just say I didn't know if I was in love? Anyway, does it really matteh if I'se in love as long as I can get her in bed?" Jack said defensively.

"Ah, Jacky got laid!" Racetrack laughed, exchanging a knowing look with Blink.

"Jack, I think you may have ta find a new goil ta seduce, if Sarah ain't talkin' ta ya." Mush advised sagely, "But have hope, Brooklyn's probably full a' sluts— I hear Spot Conlon keeps hisself pretty busy at night anyway. You'se could probably find a coupla goils to amuse yourself wit'."

"Ain't you charming." Lunch Money spat, disgusted with the boys, "Is that all ya ever use goils fa'?"

"Of course not!" Mush protested, "When ya fall in love fa' real, it's different... I think."

"Don't worry about it though, Lunch," Racetrack told her reassuringly, "We ain't evah gonna let you fall in love anyway. We know what boys are after—we _are_ boys. Boys are no good."

"I can believe that." Lunch Money responded wryly.

"Nah, Lunch is probably already head ovah heels fa' some guy." Blink teased, shoving Lunch Money lightly on the shoulder. "Ya might as well tell us who it is now so we'se can soak 'em."

"It's Oscar Delancey, ain't it?" Boots laughed, joining in on the joke. Lunch Money told him to shut it, glaring at her friends irritably.

"No, no, I know who it is," Mush cried eagerly, "It's gotta be her hero, the mysterious Spot Conlon!" The boys exchanged broad smirks, knowing how much Spot and Lunch Money hated each other. Lunch Money pretended to gag, rolling her eyes back into her head.

"Ugh, don't make me sick. I think I'd take a Delancey ovah him!"

"Aw, come on," Mush grinned, "Spot Conlon's got it all—the power, the respect—those eyes!"

"Are you trying ta convince me that _I_ have a thing for Conlon, or that _you_ have thing for Conlon?" Lunch Money made a face. Mush frowned.

"Well, Lunch, Mush, good luck ta both a' ya, winning ovah Spot Conlon." Jack sighed, "I've nevah known him ta keep a goil more than one night, and I don't even know if he's capable of fallin' in love."

"If anyone can soften Spot's heart, I'm sure it'll be our Mush." Racetrack added one last crack before the newsies silently agreed that it was time to drop the joke and get to sleep.


	7. Brooklyn Goes to War

It was two days before Lunch Money could put any sort of weight on her left foot, and another five before she could walk well enough to go back to selling papers with the others. Those seven days made up one of the longest weeks of her life. Everyday, she woke up, watched the boys go off to sell, sat in the alley all day, and waited for them to come back (usually with split lips and blacked eyes; the Brooklynites were showing no mercy to the intruders.). The boys took turns staying the day with Lunch Money to "look after" her. Jack and Racetrack both agreed that it would be too dangerous to leave her on her own. While Lunch Money was impatient with their patronizing, she was grateful that one of her friends was always to distract her from her thoughts.

Now, ordinarily, Lunch Money was not the type of girl who lived in her head—rarely did she spend afternoons daydreaming or obsessing over her problems. But in the days following the adventure she'd shared with Spot, Lunch Money found that she could not get that stupid boy out of her head. She was inclined to blame Mush for this (Mush and all his insinuations… and, well, mush.), though her thoughts about Spot were always resolutely unromantic. He just kept popping into her head at the oddest moments. Playing cards with Racetrack—_ I wonder if Conlon's into poker…probably, most of us newsies can't resist a bet. _Or discussing the slow headlines with Kid Blink—_How the hell did Conlon spin _that_ headline? I doubt even New York's most respected newsie could make anything of this waffle._ Lunch Money was disgusted with herself. Spot Conlon had no right to take up any amount of space in her head. The arrogant bastard.

Though she put up a very good front for her friends, they seemed to suspect that something was wrong. Lunch Money caught Mush and Blink exchanging curious looks with each other whenever they were around her, and Racetrack was acting more paranoid about her than ever. Although that might have been because his little sister had recently been the victim of an attempted rape. Either way, Lunch Money was anxious to get back to work, where she could focus on creating hideous disasters in her headlines to entice potential customers.

"I'm sellin' tomorrow," She announced a week after Spot had rescued her from her would-be rapists. "Theah ain't no way I'm sayin' heah anudder day; I'm bored outta my mind."

"Are ya shoah, Lunch?" Racetrack asked immediately, "You'se still limpin' a bit, maybe you'se should rest heah one more day."

"Nuh-uh, no way," Lunch Money told her brother firmly, "I ain't spendin' one more day in this damn alley. I'm goin' wit' ya tomorrow. I'm fine." _I'm fine._ Lunch Money noticed that lately she had been trying to convince an awful lot of people that she was fine. She half-believed it herself.

Unfortunately, when the seven Manhattan newsies arrived at the Brooklyn circulation office the next morning, they found themselves looking upon an all too familiar sight. The gates were chained and the newsies of Brooklyn gathered outside them, looking concerned. Lunch Money's feeling of de je vu intensified when she noticed the wooden apparatus on the corner at the end of the block. A newsstand.

"No!" Racetrack gasped as his comrades shared outraged expressions. They were all thinking the same thing: this was it for the newsies. Newsstands would shut them out this time for sure. They had nowhere else to run; Brooklyn had been their last chance.

Around them, the Brooklyn newsies (unfamiliar with the newsstand situation) realized the corner Pulitzer and Hearst had muscled them into. None of Brooklyn's boys even bothered to take a swing at the Manhatten boys, as was the customary greeting, but one of them even tapped Crutchy on the shoulder to ask what was going on. The rivalry had been forgotten, now that they were all in the same trouble. For several minutes, the Brooklyn newsies wandered around the square in confusion, running from group to group, trying to figure out what to do.

"What's all this?" Lunch Money jumped. Wheeling around, she realized that Spot Conlon was standing right in the midst of their company. He had just arrived on the scene, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why none of the newsies were lined up to get their papes.

"Newsstands, Spot." Jack said grimly.

"_Newsstands?_" Spot hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously, "_Newsstands?_ We'll see about that." Without another word to Jack, he shoved his way through the crowd of newsboys, right up to the newsstand and addressed the manager so that most of the square could hear him:

"What is this?"

"A newsstand, boy, now clear out all yas, I got payin' customehs ta attend ta." The manager said crisply, not looking at Spot.

"Oh yeah? What about the newsies?" Spot demanded, fuming.

"What _about _the newsies? New Yawk ain't got newsies anymore, little boy. Why don't you go home now, son?" Spot gave the man a long, hard look, his jaw set.

"You gonna be sorry you eveh messed with Spot Conlon." He told the manager mutinously, and then, turning to the crowd of newsies behind him, he growled two words through clenched teeth.

"Soak 'em."

It was absolute pandemonium. The newsies rushed the newsstand; the manager shrieked and ran for his life. In a crime reminiscent of the vandalizing of _The World's_ circulation office back in the strike days, the newsies tore the newsstand apart, leaving a heap of crumpled newspaper and a load of broken plywood. With their great numbers, the entire task took less than four minutes to accomplish, to Spot's obvious delight.

"Are we gonna let 'em shut out Brooklyn?" He roared to his league of newsboys.

"No!" They answered vehemently.

"Damn right, no! These are our streets, and they ain't gonna take it away from us!" Spot said angrily, "It may take all we got, but we ain't goin' down without a fight. We'll soak any goons who'se tryin' ta put us outta business. Who's with me?"

The Brooklyn newsies cheered. Jack and the Manhattan newsies then lost track of the leader of Brooklyn as he wove through the crowd, delegating tasks to his various followers. The defiant newsboys departed in bands of four and five, out hunting for more newsstands to illicitly dismantle. The Manhattan newsies watched the action excitedly; maybe Spot Conlon and his newsies could save the newsies.

The street slowly cleared, though the cries of Spot's friends could be heard from several blocks away. Spot glanced over at the knot of Manhattan newsies. With noticeable effort, he started over toward Jack. He was not at all happy about having to talk to them now, and he certainly didn't want to admit to Jack that he had been wrong. Nonetheless, Spot approached the group. Lunch Money glared at him. He made a face back at her before refocusing his attention on Jack.

"I'm done bein' an idiot, Jack." Spot stated, frowning at them, as if daring them to say 'I told ya so.' "I honestly didn't think the newsstands would be that much of a threat ta Brooklyn. But newsies gotta stick togetheh, so if you'll help us, we'll help you."

"Yeah right," Lunch Money muttered to Blink, "Why should we help him? He didn't help us." Her friends made noises and gestures of agreement, but Spot glowered at them and they quickly shut up.

"Excuse me? Whaddya mean I didn't help ya?" Spot narrowed his eyes at Lunch Money. She shifted uncomfortably; his eyes were intense enough when he wasn't glaring at her. "I saved your life didn't I? Or at least your virginity." He smirked.

"I dunno, Spot," Jack said, trying to steer the conversation back to the point, while Luney Money fumed. "They kinda got a point. We needed help, and instead a' helpin' us out, you tell every newsie in Brooklyn ta beat us up."

"I did not." Spot said quickly; "I just didn't tell them not ta. C'mon, Jack, this ain't about gettin' even wit' each otheh, this is about savin' the jobs a' newsies everywhere. And you'se good at fightin' the fellas up in the offices. Brooklyn's gonna need every newsie we can get."

Jack seemed intrigued at the opportunity to stick it to Pulitzer again. "What's the plan?" he asked, trying to sound skeptical.

"I told the boys ta go trash any newsstand they could find. Steal the papes outta their stock and we'll sell 'em ourselves." Spot shrugged.

"How will that make Pulitzer and Hearst give us our jobs back?" Jack asked.

"I haven't figured that out yet." Spot admitted, "Do _you_ have any better ideas?"

"No." Jack muttered, "Whaddya think, fellas?" he looked around at his friends.

Boots spoke up first. "I wouldn't mind sleepin' inside fa' a' change."

"Yeah." Mush agreed immediately, "An' not gettin' soaked everyday sounds al'ight ta me."

The other boys quickly agreed. They were sick of living on the streets. They were sick of being cold and starving. And they were most definitely sick of the Brooklyn newsies ganging up on them. Spot grinned as the Manhattan newsies conversed among each other; he preferred things to go his way. Lunch Money on the other hand was not pleased at all. How could her friends forgive Conlon so easily? He was scum. He left them out on the streets to rot, and let his boys try to run them out of Brooklyn.

"Lunch?" Racetrack's voice shook Lunch Money from her thoughts. "Whaddya think?"

The other boys waited for Lunch Money to voice her views, as she was the only one yet to share her enthusiasm on the matter. Looking around, Lunch Money doubted her opinion would really dissuade anyone from agreeing to help Spot. They all looked pretty eager to live in a lodging house again. If she protested, Racetrack and Jack would have just made her go along with them anyway.

"I guess." She muttered grudgingly.

"Al'ight, Spot you gotcha'self a deal. We help you fellas out; you let us stay in Brooklyn." Jack and Spot spit-shook on it, and the all the newsboys looked relieved to be friends again. Lunch Money rolled her eyes. Now she would have to deal with Conlon every lousy day. She didn't know if she could handle that. Spot and Lunch Money exchanged yet another hateful look. Like Lunch Money, Spot was also wondering how he'd deal with this. It would be a miracle if they didn't kill each other.

"C'mon, then." Spot said, leading the Manhattan newsies out of the square, "We got some newsstands ta take care a'"


	8. Ritz Barkley: The Unforeseen Obstacle

The rest of the afternoon was spent merrily terrorizing the streets of Brooklyn. Only when it grew dark did they realize it was time to head off home. After first making a final visit to the alley on 86th street to amass their pathetic collections of extra clothing, the eight newsies arrived at the lodging house. It was past suppertime by the time they'd reach the old brick building, and most of the Brooklyn newsies had already returned from defacing newsstands, many sporting cuts and bruises.

They entered the lodging house to find a dimly lit lobby, with a high counter near the far wall, with a little old man working diligently behind it. Lunch Money looked around; it wasn't too much different than Kloppman's place. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Spot led the way up a flight of rickety stairs. Jack and Racetrack, both cracking jokes and laughing at each other, as usual, followed him. Next came Boots, silently wary of his surroundings; then was Mush, happily assisting Crutchy up the stairs. Blink and Lunch Money took up the rear.

"In heah." Spot told them, once he'd reached the top of the steps. He pushed a door open. The door was once painted white, but had since been stained by grubby newsboy hands and chipped to reveal a rather nondescript wood grain. Spot held the door ajar for the other newsies. The boys filed in, claiming bunks and tossing their stuff down. Lunch Money started to follow Blink into the dorm, but Spot stretched one arm across the doorframe, blocking her way.

"Where d'ya think your goin'?"

Lunch Money rolled her eyes. The answer seemed pretty obvious to her. "Into the dorm, what does it look like, genius?"

"Yeah, well, in Brooklyn we'se civilized." Spot smirked, "Goil's room, up the stairs, foirst door on your left." He instructed. Behind him, the Manhattan boys exchanged nervous glances. Lunch Money, rooming with other girl newsies? How would that work out? Without another word, Lunch Money turned away from the boys and scaled the flight. She arrived on the third floor, apparently the only living thing in the corridor. It was sort of creepy; she was used to boarding houses being noisy and loud and full of activity. She could hear the boys on the floor below her running around and fighting each other. On the girl's floor, it was comparatively mellow.

Girl newsies. Ugh. Lunch Money had had contact with them, of course, but she greatly preferred the company of newsboys. Racetrack didn't like her hanging around with them either; more often than not, newsgirls ended up being baby prostitutes, and Racetrack would have given up gambling before he let his little sister sell her body on the streets of New York. And thus, she had come to live at the Manhattan Boys Lodging House, rather than the apartment the Manhattan newsgirls shared. The apartment often nicknamed the Manhattan Whore House. Not to say that all girl newsies were tramps; Lunch Money had met a handful of girls who were actually interested in selling papers. But they annoyed her with their prissy ways. Or worse, they were other tomboys who actually though they were tougher than Lunch Money.

Lunch Money pushed open the door that Spot had specified, not bothering to knock. This door was also yellowed with age and use, but was considerably less worn, Lunch Money noticed as she shut it behind her. The room was the basic dorm: a plain space filled with bunks. There were three large windows on the back wall, and the floor was strewn with underwear and old unsold papes. It was much smaller than the dormitory back at Kloppman's, understandably, as Lunch Money only saw six other occupants.

One girl (about Lunch Money's own age) was tall, with hair the exact shade of a ripe banana; she seemed to be the dominant personality of the group. She sat cross-legged on one of the upper bunks, speaking imperiously to two girls who were wide-eyed, hanging onto her every word. In the bunk beneath the blonde girl was a younger one (eight or nine years old, at best), already asleep under the thin cotton blankets. The remaining two girls (a mousy, pale skinned eleven-year-old and a intelligent-looking Asian girl of around thirteen.) had a game of cards going in the far corner, removed from the center of things.

"Hey, I know who you are." The blonde girl leapt off her bunk, narrowing her eyes as Lunch Money entered the room, "You'se that Higgins goil Spot _had_ ta rescue a coupla weeks ago." Lunch Money felt ill all of a sudden. But she did notice the obvious emphasis the blonde girl had placed on the word 'had'. She didn't sound pleased about Spot helping Lunch Money, and her jealously couldn't have been clearer.

"Ya heard about that?"

"Please, everyone heard about that." The blonde girl laughed. The two girls sitting on the floor quickly laughed along with her.

"I'm Ritz Barkley." She told Lunch Money sticking out a hand, "This is Rodeo," (Here she indicated a small dishwater blonde-haired girl) "And Tease." (An older, girl with feiry red hair and freckles nodded.)

"Lunch Money Higgins." Lunch Money introduced herself before spitting into her hand to shake Ritz's hand. Ritz gave a disgusted little shriek and drew her hand back quickly.

"What? Don't tell me ya never saw a spit-shake."

"Of course I have, I don't live under a rock." Ritz said giving Lunch Money a scathing look, "But I never saw a goil spit-shake before."

"Yeah, well I ain't neveh saw a goil weah trousers neitheh." The girl named Rodeo laughed.

"I'm glad ya think it's funny." Lunch Money said coolly, pushing past them to drop her bundle of clothes on an empty bunk. She was uncomfortably aware that all the girls (excluding the one that was asleep, of course) were staring at her.

"So, you an' Spot Conlon." Ritz kept on talking. Did this girl not take a hint? "_Too bad_ ya can't properly pay him back." she waggled her eyebrows suggestively. Behind this transparant, friendly facade, Ritz's eyes watched Lunch Money keenly.

"Yeah, I'll 'properly' pay him back one'a these days… with a good punch in the mouth." Lunch Money muttered more to herself than to Ritz. Ritz let out a scream of mirth that made the hairs on the back of Lunch Money's neck stand up on end.

"No, silly goil, I was talkin' about sex." Ritz rolled her eyes at Lunch Money's naivete, "How that would be the perfect payment. I mean, he saved your life, and you clearly find him attractive."

Lunch Money literally gagged. She genuinely thought for a moment that she was going to vomit all over the floor. "I do not! I hate Spot Conlon. I hate him!" Lunch Money told Ritz emphatically, "That's disgustin'." Words did not express her utter revulsion.

Ritz seemed very satisfied by this answer. "What?" she giggled, "He's good in bed. But he's mine, thank you very much, so I'd keep out from under him."

For some inexplicable reason, this last sentence stopped Lunch Money cold. Ritz and Spot? Now she really was going to throw up. Lunch Money was experiencing an emotion, at first she thought it could be jealousy, but she quickly convinced herself it was just the image of Spot and Ritz together that had her stomach turning.

"You and Spot?" Lunch Money asked incredulously, "You're seein' _Spot Conlon_?"

"Not officially, no." Ritz admitted, "But we do get togetheh often enough. And he knows he's the only boy I don't charge."

"Whaddya mean he's the only boy you—_Oh._" Comprehension dawned across Lunch Money's face, "You'se _prostitutes?_ All of you?"

"Hell no!" A voice came from the corner. It was the Asian girl who had been playing cards earlier, "We are not all whores, thank ya very much! Just those three sluts."

"Al'ight calm down, Nix." Rodeo gave the Asian girl a scornful look. Lunch Money spared Rodeo a glance, then performed a double take.

"_You're_ a prostitute? What are you, ten?"

"I'm twelve, actually. Almost thirteen." Rodeo snapped defensively, "And I prefer the term 'entertainer'."

"You gotta be kiddin' me." Lunch Money moaned, collapsing onto her bunk, "Man, if me bruddah knew what kinda whores I'm roomin' wit'…"

"Your bruddah's Racetrack Higgins, right?" Tease asked curiously.

"Yeah. Please don't tell me he's one'a your custumers." Lunch Money wasn't sure how more of this she could handle.

"Nah, don't worry, I ain't never done Manhattan newsie. Yet." She giggled, "I do like the look of that Jack Kelly, though."

Lunch Money made face, "Well, that'll please him. He just broke up wit' Sarah Jacobs, and I think he's lookin' ta get laid. He ain't gonna pay fa' it though."

"Oh, we neveh charge the newsboys." Rodeo laughed. "We do them fa' free."

"Charming." Lunch Money muttered, quite tired and revolted of the conversation.

"Ain't it?" The girl called Nix spoke up from the corner, collecting a generous heap of coins from her friend. The younger mousy-haired girl (freshly robbed of all her dough) reshuffled the cards before returned them to their case, before climbing into bed herself, settling down to listen to the older girls talk. "Ain't it the nastiest thing ya eveh heard?" Nix continued, ignoring the affronted looks Ritz, Tease and Rodeo were giving her.

"It's a disgrace to newsgoils, in my opinion. Carryin' on like bastard sluts."

"Shuddit, Nix." Rodeo growled, "You all actin' like you'se so much betteh and smarteh than us."

"I _am_ smarteh than you." Nix told Rodeo point-blank. Lunch Money suppressed a laugh. This Nix girl seemed impervious to the other girls insults and fake personalities. Her demeanor was utterly calm, but her words all carried a certain air of vindictiveness and intellect.

"Nuh-uh." Rodeo whined intelligently.

"Ya ain't provin' ya point very well." Nix said, looking suddenly disinterested in carrying on the discussion. "I'm goin' ta bed now. Maybe by tomorrow you'll a' worked out what I've said, and you can have your retort ready." With Lunch Money marveling at Nix's unending lack of temper, Nix climbed into the bunk above Lunch Money and curled herself under the sheets.

"Anyway." Ritz loudly opined, disgusted with Nix, "Like I was tellin' ya, Lunch, Spot Conlon is quite worth your while. Although, I'd like ta think I've got a bit of a claim on him." She giggled again. Lunch Money made a face. What did she mean by 'a claim' on Spot? Just sex? Or were they actually involved in a relationship? Neither answer suited Lunch Money. _Why do you care?_ She asked herself irately, _it doesn't matter to you what's going on between Ritz and Spot._

"Ritz," Nix's voice came from overhead, "You can stop braggin' about sleepin' wit' Spot. We'se all knows you'se is in love wit' him; ya don't need ta declare it ta every goil who comes within a four-mile radius of Brooklyn. None a' us care who you're fuckin'. Don't mind her, Lunch," she added to Lunch Money, "She's crazy posessive of Spot; she's paranoid about all the new goils. It's kinda pathetic." Nix raised her voice for Ritz's benefit, "When we all know Spot Conlon will neveh fall in love wit' anyone. Least of all some whore."

Ritz folded her arms and gave Nix a murderous glare, but no one spoke after that. Tease and Rodeo both gave Nix contemptuous sneers then began changing into their nightdresses. Lunch Money, however, stayed awake and dressed for a long time after the lights had gone out. Images and thoughts swirled around her brain, Spot Conlon still a prominent element, but he was now joined by Lunch Money's ponderings of the new complication that was Ritz Barkley.


	9. Liars

Lunch Money was not the only one who had trouble sleeping that night. For the second time in a week, Spot Conlon found himself unable to drift off.

Spot Conlon was famously capable when it came to seducing girls, and was considered a master of sweet-talking the ladies. But this wasn't anything Spot had ever experienced. Never before had he lost sleep thinking about some girl. Especially some girl that he thought he hated.

Around him, the snores and garbled sleep-talking of the boys in the dormitory seem to fade in and out of Spot's hearing. He lay on his back, his blanket pulled up to his chin, just staring at the bottom of the mattress above him. He had seen her again today. For the first time in a week he'd seen her. And she was just as annoying and loudmouthed and stupid as she had ever been. Spot hated her. The word 'hate' didn't seem to do Lunch Money justice. It was more than that. He wasn't even sure how to categorize it. She annoyed the hell out of him, yet every time he saw her something inside him hurt. Like physical pain. And Spot resented her for giving him this peculiar feeling.

No, he was Spot Conlon. Spot Conlon didn't feel anything. He didn't feel remorse for letting Jack and his newsies sleep in the streets and fight for the lives. He didn't feel lonely as the elevated, distant leader that he was. He remained completely indifferent to everything and everyone he came in contact with. He liked it that way. Or at least he had before.

If Lunch Money knew what was going through his head… _Forget Lunch Money_, He thought, _if _Racetrack_ knew what was goin' t'rough your head, he'd murdeh ya._ Spot rolled over onto his side and shut his eyes tightly, trying to keep out any musings that were likely to keep him up.

He remembered how this had all come about in the first place. He had been out late a week ago, just taking care of some business on the shabbier side of Brooklyn when he happened upon that street. He had seen Lunch Money about a block before she ran into those thugs. Well, he had figured it was her; there weren't many girls running around Brooklyn wearing trousers. He had been running to catch up with her—to give her a hard time, make fun of her a bit (the girl was just so easy to set off into a temper!)—when the men accosted her. At first it had struck Spot as amusing that anyone would be trying to hit on Lunch Money, of all girls, but as the goons closed in, Spot had felt a stab of fear. It was a lucky thing he hadn't been far off when they dragged her into the alley. He had sprinted the rest of the block, breathing hard, reaching the alley only just in time.

He told himself later that his concern had been on behalf of Racetrack. Racetrack and Spot had known each other for a number of years, and Spot knew it would flat-out kill Racetrack if anything happened to his sister. Obviously that was Spot's motive.

And then later that night. When he had held Lunch Money in his arms. Spot couldn't count how many times those moments replayed themselves across his memory. He thought he could have stayed in that alley forever, just watching her sleep. It was amazing how an obnoxious, grubby tomboy could be still so beautiful. He had been a perfect gentleman about the situation, which was odd for a punk like Spot not to take advantage of the circumstances. The _really_ odd thing had been that it all felt so comfortable, so familiar. Like they had known each other for years, and it was only natural that Spot should look after Lunch Money.

God knew _someone_ had to look after that girl. According to Jack, Lunch Money couldn't go anywhere alone without getting into trouble. She would try to pick a fight with a boy twice her size and just wind up with a black eye or a missing tooth. She imagined herself to be a much more formidable force than she was in reality. Lunch Money was a big mouth, with a bigger ego and a dangerous overconfidence in herself. She _needed_ to have Kid Blink at her shoulder, ready to keep her out of a fight. Failing that, Racetrack had to at least be prepared to grab her by her shirt collar and drag her home. _Someone_ had to look after Lunch Money. Why not Spot Conlon?

Wait. _This_ was the girl Spot couldn't get out of his head? This snotty little street rat, who even had the impudence to insult Brooklyn himself? He turned over onto his other side, disgusted with himself. _Snap out of it, Brooklyn. You're startin' ta sound like Mush Meyers, him and all his stupid romantic mush._

And what was he going to do about Ritz? Ritz Barkley, regarded as a terrible slut, even among her fellow whores, had now developed a fondness for Spot. Spot would have had to be dumber than a rock not to notice; in the last few weeks, Ritz's flirting had gotten more and more outrageous. And sure, it's been fun the few nights they'd spent together, but as far as he was concerned, that was it, and he was rather irritated at Ritz's constant efforts to seduce him again.

Girls were much more trouble than they were worth, Spot decided, changing his position again so that he now lay on his back. He knew he couldn't lie to himself, as much as he wanted to. He had been lying to himself about this since he saw Lunch Money. Spot could lie to customers when he was selling papers. He could lie to his fellow newsies. But Spot could not lie to himself.

He could lie to Lunch Money, though. He _would_ lie to Lunch Money. Because what respect would the leader of Brooklyn retain if his one vulnerability, his one weakness, was exposed? What would it do to his reputation if the newsies of New York discovered that Spot Conlon had fallen in love?

* * *

"What the hell kinda headline is this?" 

It was lunchtime, and all the newsies in Brooklyn were slowly showing up for a bite to eat at a little restaurant near the lodging house. It was a dingy, dank place, much less inviting than Tibby's back in Manhattan. The glass window read "Liam's Restaurant and Bar" in red paint, and the tables were in need of a good scrubbing. Still, while it wasn't the Madison Square Gardens, Liam's wasn't a bad place for newsies to kick up their feet and grab a bite.

Lunch Money was just outside Liam's, "perusing the merchandise" with Kid Blink and Racetrack. The front-page story was just some waffle about the some overseas trading company who may or may not be making some deal with some European big shot. It might be vaguely interesting for any stuffed-shirt businessman, but to the general public of Brooklyn, it was irrelevant drivel.

"We nearly get arrested tearin' apart that damn newsstand, and all we get is a load of shit headline!" Lunch Money complained indignantly.

"Headlines don't sell papes—"

"Newsies sell papes. I know, ya don't think I eveh hoird that befoah?" Lunch Money snapped, looking up to find one of her least favorite people in Brooklyn: Spot Conlon himself. Racetrack and Blink swapped looks silently saying _here we go again._

"So why d'ya care about what the headline says?" Spot smirked.

"It's just easieh than havin' ta make stuff up." Lunch Money shrugged, "Tell me than, how does _the great Spot Conlon_ spin a bad headline?"

Spot ignored Lunch Money's irreverent sarcasm and responded, "I just make stuff up, like anybody else. Disastehs, murdehs, whatever sells a pape. Obsoirve." He shot her a devious grin before turning his back her and yelling to street:

"Helpless Goil Oveh-Powered by Brutal Rapists! Heroic Newsboy Comes Ta Her Aid!"

"_Hey!_" Lunch Money cried angrily. She gave Spot a hard shove; he staggered bit, rocking back and laughing. Blink and Racetrack watched the scene on tenterhooks, waiting for the insult that would require them to break up a fight.

"Yeah, I know, our little adventure is kinda old news." Spot said, still choking back laughter, "But I used us as a headline last week, and let me tell you, we was a big selleh. If ya eveh find yahself a victim a' sex-crazed maniacs again, lemme know, it does sell those papehs."

Lunch Money just glared at him before turning away. A man (presumably Liam) had just opened Liam's up for lunch, so she stalked into the restaurant fuming. Spot, Blink and Racetrack followed her. Lunch Money found a seat at a table near the back of the restaurant; to her confusion and irritation, Spot sat down in the chair directly across from her.

"Ya know what you're problem is?"

Lunch Money looked positively exasperated. What else did he want? Through clenched teeth she replied, "What is my problem?"

"Ya don't got any control oveh ya temper. Ya take everything too poirsonally." He told her in a very matter-of-fact manner.

"_What?_" Lunch Money was insulted, "I do not!" A waiter appeared at their table, a notepad and pen in his hand.

"I'll just have some coffee, Sam. Lunch, you want anything?"

"No." She snapped, still giving Spot a terrible look.

"Okay. That'll be all, Sam." The waiter disappeared and Spot turned back to Lunch Money, who was ready to go off on a tirade.

"I do _not_ take everything too personally, I—"

"Yes! Yes ya do," Spot insisted, "You're gettin' mad again, right now."

"I ain't gettin' mad." Lunch Money said unconvincingly, struggling to keep her tone of voice even and unperturbed.

Spot smirked. She was such a terrible liar, it was rather charming. "Shoah... Deal wit' it, Lunch, ya got no pokeh face."

"Please, I grew up with Racetrack, ya don't think I know that?" Lunch Money rolled her eyes, "He tells me more than once a week I ain't gotta pokeh face. What does that have ta do wit' anything?" Sam the waiter delivered the mug of black coffee to Spot, who eagerly accepted it. He paused for a moment, savoring his drink before answering.

Across the restaurant, more and more newsies came in from the cold, gladly pulling up chairs and sliding into booths. Racetrack and Blink quickly found the other Manhattan newsies. They claimed a booth and ordered their food, talking in low voices and tossing furtive glances to Spot and Lunch Money's table.

"What were they talkin' about, Blink?" Jack asked curiously.

"They were fightin' about sumptin', as usual." Blink shook his head.

"Ya shoulda heard 'em." Racetrack added, "They'se bickerin' like some old married couple." The boys snickered.

"It's just so easy ta tell exactly what ya thinkin'. It reads all oveh ya face." Spot shrugged in reply, "Ya let personal feelin's interfere with everything ya do; it's so obvious. Like right now ya want me ta shut up and get the hell outta ya face."

"You're brilliant, Conlon." Lunch Money said wryly, "Like a mind readeh. I s'pose you're always the cold, tough leadeh a' Brooklyn, and ya _neveh_ let poirsonal feelin's get in the way a' anything." She added sardonically.

"Neveh." Spot lied.

Lunch Money snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Are you always this much of a' bitch?" Spot said conversationally, "I dunno what ya have against me in the foirst place."

"You're an arrogant bastard." Lunch Money said without the slightest hesitation, "That's what I got against ya. Actin' like the king of New York, bossin' people around, tryin' ta be a tough guy." She paused to take a breath and give Spot a revolted look, "Ya blacklisted me an' me friends from every street corneh in Brooklyn, for God's sake! Ya only eveh think about yahself—"

Spot cut her off. "Yeah, I'll remembeh ta only think a' meself next time I see ya gettin' dragged into some alley." He snapped, his eyes flashing dangerously. Lunch Money was quiet for a moment, somewhat abashed. It occurred to her that she had never properly thanked Spot for saving her that night. She shrugged the realization off. Whatever, why should she thank that pig?

"So," Lunch Money broke the silence, "While we'se on that. Why didja help me that night?" She'd been wondering that for the last week. Everyone knew it was out of his usual character to do something so kind for someone else. Especially for a girl he supposedly hated. Spot didn't answer. He was angry that Lunch Money had asked him the one question he didn't know the answer to, and worried that she might see through to the solution herself. Despite his fears, Spot's expression remained as stern and unfathomable as ever. Up until this point, he had done so well in maintaining his facade.

"Spot?" Lunch Money prompted him quietly. Spot looked up. Their eyes met.

"I--" Spot stopped talking, and his eyes flicked downward for a split-second before resolutely meeting Lunch Money's gaze again. Neither moved, nor spoke; they just stared at each other, each trying to decode the mysterious expressions in the other's eyes.

"Spot!" A loud, high-pitched voice shattered the fragile silence around them, and caused both Lunch Money and Spot to cringe inwardly. Ritz Barkley slid into the seat next to Spot, snaking her arm through a crook in his elbow so that their arms were linked. Today Ritz's gorgeous hair was down around her shoulders in elegant waves, and she wore an exceptionally low-cut dress.

"Spot, I ain't seen ya all day." Ritz whined, laying her head on his shoulder. She gave Lunch Money a cold look, as though she had caught Lunch Money trepassing on her property. As usually happened when Ritz entered a room, Lunch Money felt abruptly ill.

"Hiya, Lunch Money, how're the headlines today?" Ritz asked in a perky, sugary sweet voice, her cold manner vanishing behind a falsely friendly veneer. Lunch Money ignored the question, frowning.

"I gotta go." She told Ritz and Spot brusquely, getting to her feet. She turned to leave, but the sound of Spot's voice made her pause.

"Lunch!" Spot faltered for a moment, as though he was unsure of what to say. He thought maybe he'd ask her to stay, or something equally stupid, but he realized that it would be easier to let Lunch Money go. She clearly would rather be elsewhere. He sighed. "Ya forgot you're papes." He finished lamely, thankful that Lunch Money had indeed left her papers on the table. Lunch Money grabbed them and without another word, she walked out of Liam's.

Spot watched her go, unconsciously abandoning all pretenses and looking longingly after her. Fortunately, for Spot reputation, at least, only one newsie in Liam's noticed his mournful expression, and the aforementioned flaneur slipped outside the restaurant right behind Lunch Money.

The Manhattan newsies, while they were out of earshot and unable to figure out how Lunch Money and Spot's conversation had ended, watched the proceedings in interest. They all glanced at each other nervously as Lunch Money exited the bar. (All the boys, excepting Jack, whose attention had been diverted by the red-haired vixen known as Tease Matthews. And, judging by the cozy positions Jack and Tease were sitting in, Jack was wasting no time pining after his ex, Sarah Jacobs.) Crutchy and Blink made to get up from the table to go after Lunch Money, but Racetrack quieted them.

"I'se gonna go see what's up." The elder Higgins told his table, looking slightly concerned. "I'll catch up wit' ya fellas lateh."

Racetrack pushed open the door leading onto the street. It was really getting cold; November had become December at last, and snow was threatening. For now, though, the streets remained clear of ice and slush, despite the low temperatures. Lunch Money was nowhere to be seen. He set off down the road, staying close to the dilapidated buildings. He reached the end of the block, and was about to turn the corner, when he overheard two voices speaking in earnest.

"I don't even know whatcha talkin' about." Racetrack recognized that as his sister's voice.

"Look, when ya've known Spot as long as I have, it ain't too difficult ta figger out when sumptin ain't right wit' him." This voice Racetrack did not recognize.

"Ya outta ya mind." Lunch Money said flatly. Racetrack, dying with curiousity, was poised to round the corner and find out what was going on, but one sentence stopped him cold.

"Lunch Money, I'se tellin' ya!" The unfamiliar voice said with conviction, "_Spot Conlon is in love wit' you._"


	10. Poker, Anyone?

"_What?_" Lunch gasped incredulously, "Nix, ya crazy." It was indeed Nix who had followed Lunch Money out of Liam's, Nix who had guessed the truth. The keenly observant girl watched Lunch Money intently through her dark, almond-shaped eyes, taking note of her reaction.

"I ain't crazy." Nix was adamant, "I seen the way he acts around ya— fa' God's sake he saved ya life last week!"

"That don't mean anything," Lunch Money said, still reeling from Nix's words, "And whaddya mean, you seen how he acts around me? He's horrible to me!"

Nix shook her head at Lunch Money naiveté. "It's prob'ly just ta throw ya off." She said shrewdly, "Look, in all the years I'se known Spot, he's neveh done anything unless he could see what was in it for hisself. I hoird ya ask him yahself why did he save ya that night. He didn't have an answer. Or at least he didn't have an answer he wanted ta tell ya." Nix arched her eyebrows suggestively.

"That don't mean anything." Lunch Money said again, this time less feverent. Around the corner, still hidden from sight, Racetrack thought he might have a heart attack. If this Nix girl was right, and Spot was in love with his little sister… Racetrack wouldn't know whether to laugh hysterically, or try to kill Spot. Most likely the latter. He knew Spot's skirt-chasing reputation, and he would be damned if his little sister would be the next girl in Conlon's bed.

"Ya didn't see that look on Spot's face aftah ya left." Nix said solemnly, "It was pretty pitiful. And the whole week aftah he saved ya, your name kept coming up. He kept bringing ya up like he couldn't stop thinkin' a' ya." Lunch Money was strongly reminded of herself in the days following their venture, how she kept thinking of Spot at odd times.

"Nuttin' ya've said proves he's in love wit' me." Lunch Money said coldly.

"Maybe not." Nix said sharply, "But I'm warnin' ya: any attention Spot gives ya, good or bad, ain't gonna go oveh well wit' Ritz. And Ritz is good at makin' life hell. I usually figger goils can figger that out about Ritz pretty quick. But I don't think you'se that smart." Nix explained, showing the sensitivity of a sledgehammer, as usual.

"I don't think I'se that smart eitheh." Lunch Money confessed.

"I ain't sayin' ya gotta do anything about what I told ya. I ain't sayin' ya gotta believe me." Nix continued, "These's just my obsoirvations. I could be wrong. But I ain't eveh wrong about this stuff." She added plainly, "I'm just tellin' ya ta be careful. Be careful about Ritz, shoah, she'll chew ya head right off. But be careful of Spot too. I'se neveh seen him act this way toward any goil, and I don't know how it could turn out, so just don't do anything stupid."

Lunch Money frowned, "Why would I do sumptin' stupid? Thanks fa' the advise, but I think I can take care a' meself."

"Did I just waste me time?" Nix asked, stretching her mouth into a pained half-smile. "You ain't gonna listen ta a woid of what I said, are ya?"

"Prob'ly not." Lunch Money shrugged, "I don't really believe anthing ya told me, so no."

She wasn't being entirely truthful. Lunch Money thought it might be overstating it to say that Spot was _in love _with her, but there had been that moment in Liam's… the silence that fell when Lunch Money questioned his motives for rescuing her from those men in the alley. And there had been several times during the various conversations (Well, various arguments) she'd had with Spot that she'd felt a certain electricity and tension between them. But Lunch Money would not let herself believe Nix. She didn't want any of this. She refused to be like every other prissy girl in New York, swooning over Spot Conlon. After all, she was Lunch Money Higgins. _Remember her?_ She asked herself, _Remember the girl who neveh gave a boy a second look, except ta beat 'em up? Remember when her thoughts weren't dominated by daydreams or spent convincing herself that she was "fine"?_ She couldn't even hold a civilized conversation with Spot without it turning into a quarrel. She despised that boy. How could anyone think they were in love?

"You like him too, don't you?" Nix asked, giving Lunch Money a probing stare. Racetrack's ears pricked, suddenly feeling very religious as he prayed his sister wasn't interested in Conlon.

"No! Are ya mad?" Lunch Money said, maybe a little too quickly.

"Hmm." Nix squinted dark eyes, "I don't think I really believe ya eitheh."

"I don't!" She protested, now irate. Racetrack now wished he could see Lunch Money's expression. The girl had no poker face, after all, and couldn't lie to save her life, but from her voice alone Racetrack had difficultly telling whether Lunch Money was being truthful or not.

"Okay." Nix said shiftily, knowing Lunch Money wasn't about to confide anything. She changed the subject, "C'mon then. Wanna go soak some blue-collah bums?"

"Shoah." Lunch Money agreed, thankful to be on a topic she was more than comfortable with. Without another word, the two newsgirls went off in search of more newsstands to tear to pieces, one girl grinning knowingly, the other angry and worried.

Racetrack slumped against the wall of one of the grimy buildings, his head in his hands. The entire world seemed to have turned upside-down in last few weeks. He hoped Nix was just a silly girl who liked to cause drama, but even as he thought of this, he remembered his own words earlier that day:

"_You shoulda heard 'em; they'se bickerin' like some old married couple."_

It was sort of surprising Nix was the only one to catch on to the truth, assuming it was the truth, at least. Was Spot and Lunch Money's constant squabbling just an act? Did Spot have feelings toward his sister? It seemed laughable; the infamously reclusive Spot Conlon-- in love with Lunch Money! Racetrack rubbed his eyes. At the end of the street he saw the other Manhattan newsies exit Liam's, finished with their lunches. What would he tell them? Nothing. He decided. Nothing to the other boys, and nothing to Lunch Money either. Racetrack wanted to see how it would play out; if Nix was really right about Lunch and Spot. Nevertheless, he vowed to keep an eye on Spot, and a closer eye on Lunch Money. Just in case.

* * *

"Damn, Lunch Money, for a Higgins, ya shoah are a bad gambler." Nix observed after Lunch Money had lost her third hand of poker. Four out of the seven Brooklyn girls were enjoying a game of cards after a long day of running rampant through the city. It was a Saturday night, so Ritz, Tease and Rodeo weren't expected back at the dormitory until very late, if at all.

Lunch Money _was_ quite a horrible gambler, in spite the years of practice she had. It was the youngest newsgirl (the one who had been asleep the first night Lunch Money had come to the lodging house, a little Jewish girl nicknamed Feivel) who was cleaning up at the game. The three older girls (Lunch Money, Nix, and a the quiet, mousy-haired girl named Starboard) sat disgruntled, nearly all their hard-earned cash sitting in a pile at Feivel's side.

"You ain't doin' any betteh, Nix." Feivel giggled happily, collecting a handful of pennies from Starboard.

"Only 'cos you cheat." Nix grumbled, dealing out the new hand.

"Prove it." Feivel smiled sweetly. Lunch Money had been warned before the game had started that Feivel was a master at rigging card games, and a compulsive liar besides. She had never actually been caught cheating, but her opponents kept a close eye on her. It had actually become a sort of challenge, a sport many newsies across Brooklyn played: try to figure out how Feivel Cohen was swindling them.

"Ain't ya too young ta be gamblin'?" Lunch Money asked, "You'se only, what eight years old?"

"I am not eight!" Feivel seemed highly affronted at Lunch Money's estimation, "I'se almost twelve, if ya must know. It's called fail-ya ta thrive; I ain't gonna grow anymore 'cos a' malnutrition." She said seriously.

"Feivel, shuddup." Nix rolled her eyes, "You ain't diseased. You'se a double-dealing seven-year-old." Lunch Money and Starboard laughed.

The merry, carefree scene was interrupted by a new presence. It was a girl no one anticipated seeing until the next morning. Ritz, of course. The seductive blonde looked a little frazzled, as though she had just come off a job, and she did not seem happy to see the assembled group of newsgirls already in the dorm.

"Heya, Ritzy," Feivel squeaked, "You'se back early."

"Yeah, what happened?" Nix asked, scoffing, "Not enough rich men ta ride tonight?"

"Shuddup, I worked a long day. Made forty dollahs too. What've you done?"

"Well, I lost two dollahs and seventy-three cents." Nix muttered, glancing at Feivel. The newsgirls sensed as a collective the Ritz was not in a mood for jokes and teasing. But it was Lunch Money, of course, who had the bad sense to snicker at the hateful look Ritz gave Nix. Nix, Starboard and Feivel knew it was easier not ta cross Ritz when she was in a temper, but Lunch Money hadn't wised up as quickly though, and was therefore fair game, as far as Ritz was concerned.

"Hey, so Lunch." Ritz began, "I saw ya talkin' ta Spot today at Liam's."

Nix sent Lunch Money a stare as to say _What did I tell ya? She's gonna kill ya. _Starboard and Feivel looked at each other, Starboard's face arranged in a stricken pose, Feivel's in a sly, gleeful smile. They hastily gathered up he deck of cards, Feivel carefully shutting them up in their case and stowing it in a pocket of her skirt. They were ready to watch the action.

"Yeah." Lunch Money shrugged. She pretended to be distracted by the scar that was forming on the sole of her foot. It would twinge with pain every so often, but she had been walking much better and the cut was healing nicely.

"What were ya talkin' about?" Ritz asked curiously, her nonchalant tone obviously feigned. She watched Lunch Money examining the scar, her eyes narrowed, obviously incensed.

"Nuttin'. He was bein' an idiot as usual, just makin' fun a' me." She got up from the floor, on which they had been playing poker and returned to her own bunk, starting to change into her nightdress. Lunch Money really did not want to go through an interrogation about Spot now. She felt she'd been getting enough of that lately.

Ritz scowled as Lunch Money the nightdress over her head and buttoned the front. "Please. I ain't an idiot. Just do yahself a favoh and stay away from him."

"Look, I try my hardest ta avoid that kid, but he's a pest." Lunch Money claimed, rolling her eyes, "It ain't my fault his sole purpose in life is ta drive me crazy." This last statement did not go over well with Ritz. She didn't like Spot giving Lunch Money any sort of attention, whether good or bad. One might think Ritz would have gotten used to Spot flirting (and more) with all kinds of girls, given that he slept with more than half the girls in New York. Usually, however, Spot would flirt with Ritz's fellow prostitutes. And Ritz didn't mind that as much. That was different somehow. Lunch Money was different.

"Yeah right!" Ritz snapped, grabbing Lunch Money by the arm, turning Lunch around to face her. Lunch Money jerked her arm out of Ritz's grasp.

"What's a' mattah wit' you?" Lunch Money couldn't believe how jealous Ritz was. She and Spot were only talking. Ritz could have him; Lunch Money didn't care. She didn't care, she didn't. And why did everyone suddenly think there was something going on between her and Spot? Lunch Money was mystified; it was like all of Brooklyn was in on a secret, but had forgotten to warn Lunch Money.

"I was talkin' ta him all aftahnoon, and he barely said a woid aftah you left. He was distracted all day, and I know why. You'se was flirting wit' him, trying ta get him undeh the covehs." Lunch Money laughed out loud at this accusation. Lunch Money? Trying to seduce Spot? Ritz's scull had probably been knocked against one too many headboards.

"I was not! Ya insane, goil." Her laughter faded, leaving her with a disgusted tone, "Both of ya!" She added angrily, gesturing to Nix as well, "You two listen ta me, listen good. I don't care about Spot. I ain't tryin' ta seduce him; I ain't some whore like you, Ritz." At this, Ritz's mouth turned up in a threatening sneer, "I can't even stand the boy! I don't give damn whedder you'se think he's in love wit' me, or whateveh. I'm saying this once and fa' all: I don't care about Spot Conlon!"

"Shoah ya don't." Nix snorted derisively. Ritz looked furious.

* * *

"Ya bum, ya don't fold when ya got four of a kind." Racetrack whacked the boy across the head impatiently. Roundhouse, the little blonde boy who had delivered Spot's message to Racetrack the previous week, rubbed his head as he mournfully watched Kid Blink rake in the pile of coins and bills. "Blink was bluffin', he didn't have anything! Geez, ya even got both eyes in ya head and you'se still blinder than Blink." Racetrack shook his head, pained by the amateur card players.

Like the girls on the floor above, several newsies in the boy's dorm had started up a game of cards. Strangely, Racetrack had declined engaging the game, but watched the game from his bunk, occasionally imparting wisdom to the less skilled gamblers.

"Race, if you'se just gonna play Roundhouse's cards fa' him, why don't ya join next round?" Jack asked, confused as to why Racetrack, notorious gambling addict, didn't want to make some easy money.

"Nah. No thanks." He refused the offer again. He glanced at Spot, who was dealing out the cards again. Racetrack hadn't been able to think of Spot the same way since he heard Nix's conversation with Lunch Money, and was suspicious of the boy.

"You okay, Race?" Mush asked. The other Manhattan newsies looked up with interest. Racetrack had been quiet all day, not talking and cracking jokes as usual.

"I'm fine." He shrugged. His friends laughed and traded amused glances. "What?" Racetrack asked, looking confused. Spot raised an eyebrow, grinning.

"Ya sounded exactly like ya sistah when ya said that." Racetrack jerked at Spot's mention of Lunch Money. Was he going into completely paranoid older brother mode, or was Nix right about Spot?

"Yeah, that's the Higgins way." Jack smirked, "Pretendin' ya fine when you ain't."

Racetrack rolled his eyes, acting as if their suggestions were ridiculous. "Ah, pipe down. Get back ta ya cards, ya bummehs."


	11. A Few More Complications

Several more days passed. They were relatively uneventful, in light of the various complications the newsies found themselves in. Lunch Money and Spot avoided each other when possible and fought nonstop when they were forced to endure each other's company. Ritz continued to glower at Lunch Money anytime she and Spot made any sort of contact. Racetrack kept an eye on his sister, still mindful of the conversation he'd overheard. Jack and Tease spent most of their time making out with each other (to the revulsion of Jack's friends), while Feivel picked the pockets of unsuspecting businessmen and extorted more money out of the older newsies, as she usually did. Nix merely looked after everyone, knowing, more or less, everything that went on among the newsies.

And between all of this, the newsies were still waging a war. Every morning they hit the streets, looking for newsstands to trash. It was shockingly easy, at first. A group of newsies would rush the stand and, typically, the manager would run for cover while the wild street rats stole his papers and dismantled his counter. But four days into the revolt, Pulitzer and Hearst got smart. If not smart, they got ruthless. The newsies first ran into trouble one morning when a group of eleven kids started their morning on a newsstand near Main Street.

"Look out!" Boots yelled to the others, "The crib!" There was a scuffle as the newsies realized they were surrounded. Lunch Money looked around. It was the seven Manhattan newsies, plus Spot and three other Brooklyn boys against half a dozen full-grown men ready with clubs and chains. Pulitzer and Hearst had tightened security; a battalion of armed men now guarded every newsstand in New York, and coppers maintained a close distance to arrest any hooligans who might try to fight.

"Bring 'em on!" Jack spat, clenching his fists and preparing himself for the fight. The other newsies shifted tensely, getting into position. One of the men attacked. He went for Mush first, who was standing slightly away from the rest. Mush darted nimbly out of the way, but still sustained a good blow from a rusted chain. The fight was on. The other men ran at the knot of newsies, swinging their weapons menacingly. The children's eyes widened with fear, but they stood their ground.

Jack and Blink were both able to wrest a couple of clubs away from two of the thugs, which helped their efforts considerably, but the newsies found themselves backed against the wall of an old warehouse, tightly cornered. The air was rife with flying marbles and small rocks; the four Brooklyn boys had pulled out their slingshots and were eagerly firing without mercy.

Lunch Money had just narrowly escaped a harsh beating from a large man wielding a jagged length of chain, when she noticed trouble. Spot was standing several feet away from her, focused on aiming his slingshot on some brute who had the heartlessness to go after Crutchy. He didn't notice the man behind him, club raised, ready to take him out with a good concussion. Lunch Money rushed forward.

"Spot!" Lunch Money seized his arm, pulling him down out of the path of the swinging bat. The man raised the bat again, aiming to strike both Lunch Money and Spot who were now crouched on the ground, but Spot was too quick. He grabbed the man around his knees, bringing him down to the pavement. Lunch Money jerked the club out of their enemy's hand and gave him a sharp blow.

"Thanks." Spot said breathlessly as they got back to their feet. Lunch Money nodded.

"No problem."

There was no more time for words; there were still more thugs to take care of. Spot and Lunch Money were right in the thick of the chaos, standing back to back, trying to hold their own against the crib. It was becoming steady more difficult; Lunch Money's foot was starting to hinder her movement. The overuse on such a recent injury was starting to catch up with her.

It was only a couple more minutes before the newsies pulled back; it was obvious the eleven kids weren't enough to take down the guards Pulitzer had hired. They were just sustaining more injury the longer they fought.

Lunch Money staggered, having just received a rough strike across the mouth. She tasted blood. Around her the newsies were tiring. She felt Spot grab her hand.

"Come on!" He cried, pulling her away from the scrap. Raising his voice he yelled to the other newsies, "Newsies, get outta heah! Scram, boys, scram!"

They fought their way through the battle, Spot leading the way. The other newsies took their cue and scattered. Once extracted from the mess, the newsies ran. On the chance that Pulitzer's goons would follow them, the newsies split up, getting as far away from the scene of the fight as they could. Sprinting like Satan himself was on their heels, Spot and Lunch Money tore off through a back alley. They wound through the streets, carelessly plowing through sparse crowds, cutting through another alley. At the end of this alley was Liam's. She and Spot skittered to a stop, breathing hard. They both suddenly realized that their hands were still tightly intertwined. They quickly let go, embarrassed.

The restaurant seemed to hold some sort of magnetic force, for all of the newsies who had taken part in the fight were appearing outside Liam's, along with Spot and Lunch Money, who were now inspecting their wounds. Neither were terribly injured; some dark bruises and bloody cuts, minor abrasions, but nothing too serious.

Racetrack and Kid Blink rushed onto the street moments later, both bloody and shaken, but alive. The other Brooklyn boys made it back alright too, as did Jack. But it was nearly twenty minutes before Mush, Boots and Crutchy were seen. After an anxious wait outside Liam's, the three boys finally came around the corner, Boots and Mush supporting Crutchy between them. The other Manhattan newsies looked scared to death; everyone was always worried for Crutchy. He preferred to take care of himself, but all the same, his friends were awfully protective of him.

"Crutchy!" Jack yelled, "Crutchy!" He met the boys at the end of the street, taking Boots's place on Crutchy's left. With Jack helping, they moved a little quicker, but it was still an agonizing process to watch. "Crutch, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm great." Crutchy answered airily, "Don't worry about it." He didn't look great, however. He was pretty well beaten up, and he could hardly walk. His face was black and blue in bruises. The boys got him into the restaurant, where they all held court around one of the longer tables.

"They can't do this." Mush said, looking around at his fellow injured newsies. "They'se gonna end up killing us."

"There ain't enough a' us." Racetrack agreed.

"Whaddya think, Spot?" Jack asked. Everyone looked at Spot.

"We gotta keep fightin'." He said somberly, "What else can we do?"

The newsies were quiet. The war had to go on; they saw that. This was only a setback, something else to fight against before they could overcome the guys in the big offices. The small council was suddenly joined by the rest of the Brooklyn newsies, all looking like they'd also been involved in similar fights. Apparantly all of Brooklyn's newsstands' security had been beefed up by the club swings goons.

"Spot, didja see those bums out there tryin' ta keep us away from the newsstands?"

"What we gonna do, Spot?" All the newsies were anxious to hear their leader's views.

"We'se gonna keep at it." Spot said again, this time for the benefit of all the newsies, "Look, the way I see it, they can't have big all-out brawls every day in front a' their newsstands. It's bad fa' business. No one will buy their papes if there's some fight going on in the street right next ta the newsstands. They'se just tryin' ta scare us off."

No sooner had he finished this speech than a last pair of newsies came flying through the door. They each had a bundle of papes in the arms and they were pushing through the assembled newsies, struggling to get to the front of the throng.

"'Scuse us, outta the way," a high voice squeaked, "We'se gotta talk ta Mista Conlon." It was Feivel. She elbowed her way to the front, accompanied by Roundhouse. "Mista Conlon. We'se got a problem."

"Yeah, we kinda figgered it out by now." Spot said impatiently, "We ain't black an' blue fa' nuttin'"

"No!" Feivel exclaimed, tossing her stack of papers down on the table. "It's sumptin' else." She told him urgently. "Pulitzer and Hearst and some otheth rich fellas with papehs are hirin' boys ta deliveh papes right ta people's homes!"

"Yeah right!" Someone scoffed.

"Shuddit, Feivel, stop ya lyin'." The newsies knew better than to believe anything that came out of Feivel Cohen's mouth.

"I ain't lyin'!" Feivel insisted, "It's true! Heah—" The little girl who cried 'Wolf' grabbed one of the papers out of Roundhouse's arms and hastily scanned through it, looking for something. She quickly found the article she was looking for and shoved it under Spot's nose. "Says so, right there."

Spot's eyes roved over the page, taking in the printed words. Judging by the way his brow furrowed, the words were not at all to his taste. "You gotta be kiddin'. What else are they gonna throw at us?" he crumpled the page and tossed it onto the table, furious.

"They been runnin' the ad since they came out wit' newsstands." Feivel told him, making a face, "We been sellin' the ads that's gonna put us outta business."

"_What?_" Jack gasped, grabbing a paper for himself and finding the advertisement. "It's true? Home deliveries?"

"They'se gonna hire boys ta deliveh papes right ta people's doors?" Blink asked, knowing their worst fears had now been realized, "This is gonna bust us. We'll be outta business befoah next week." The others agreed vehemently, gloomily envisioning their lives without selling papers everyday.

"We ain't done yet." Spot said over the hubbub, "Why should we let some snot-nosed blue-collah boys get the betteh of us? Forget the newsstands, we can just pound on the little delivery boys. If the papes don't get delivehed ta customehs, they'll realize that the newsies are the only reliable sellehs out there." The Brooklyn newsies exchanged smirks, "It ain't oveh fellas. The home delivery boys are just one more bunch a bums we gotta soak."

The newsies cheered up marginally by the time their lunch orders had arrived, and, even though most of the kids were battered and bruised, the meal was a jovial one. Newsies were a resilient bunch; it took a lot to keep them down. Spot and Jack however, looked less than cheery. The two leaders sat in a table near the corner, away from the rest (Much to Ritz and Tease's displeasure. The red-haired whore had been looking forward to a make-out session with Jack, while Ritz was positively attention-starved and ready for Spot to flirt with her and maybe arrange something to look forward to that night.). Spot and Jack talked in hushed voices, discussing the various traps Pulitzer had set. Arming the newsstands, putting out a delivery service? Was Pulitzer literally trying to kill them?

Several tables away, the Manhattan newsies (minus Jack, of course.) chowed down on the paltry entrees that had been served. Almost everyone was running low on cash, and each newsie was now rationing his pennies day to day.

"How'd you guys come out a' the fight?" Boots asked between mouthfuls of tomato soup. The others shrugged.

"Al'ight." Blink shrugged, "Pretty banged up, but nothin' to bad."

"Yeah," Lunch Money nodded, "I got through okay. But me foot's killin' me. I think I stressed it too much when me an' Spot made a break fa' it."

Racetrack choked on his glass of water. He coughed loudly as he inhaled the liquid. Now that he thought about it, Racetrack did remember seeing Spot and Lunch Money escaping together. At the time, it hadn't registered; he had been a little distracted, trying to avoid getting his scull bashed into his brains. _Why were Spot and Lunch Money together?_ Wiping his mouth, he tried to regain his composure.

"Race?" Lunch Money gave her brother a funny look, "Are you gonna choke ta death? What's up?"

"I told ya, ya shouldn't a' been walkin' on that foot yet." Racetrack lied quickly. It was a good lie too; it was something he might actually chide Lunch Money for under normal circumstances.

* * *

The next day, the still bruised and beaten newsies took once again to the streets. Lunch Money was relieved to be once again in the company of the newsboys. Ritz, Tease and Rodeo had given her a hard time the previous night, either about fighting like the boys, or more shit about Spot. 

This time, the newsies didn't bother seeking out newsstands to destroy. Instead, they congregated outside the gates of the circulation office, the place the delivery boys were likely to come from. Sure enough, as the hour struck, forty or fifty boys poured out of the gates, messenger bags under their arms. The bags were full of papes.

"Soak 'em!" Jack roared to the renegade newsboys. And so they charged. The delivery boys scurried away in all directions, doing all they could to avoid a beating and deliver their papers. Newsies grabbed the ones too slow to get away, knocking them down and stealing their papes. The poor delivery boys never knew what hit them. Things like this was why you didn't mess with Brooklyn.

Lunch Money saw three boys who had escaped the newsies running down one street, newspapers protectively under their arms.

"Jack! Blink! Down heah!" She ran after the delivery boys, Jack and Kid Blink right behind her. As they closed in on the trio, Lunch Money gasped. She recognized that hat. The boy on the far left was wearing a gray cap, worn crookedly, at a distinct angle. Jack and Blink recognized it too. They couldn't believe it. The traitor.

"Snitch!"


	12. Traitors and Small Favors

The three delivery boys wheeled around. The boy in the gray hat was indeed their friend Snitch, and he was accompanied by two more of their Manhattan pals: Skittery and Snipeshooter. Jack, Kid Blink and Lunch Money approached their friends, looking at them in disbelief.

"Whaddya doin'?" Lunch Money growled ferociously, "You'se woikin' fa' Pulitzeh?"

"Yeah." Skittery shrugged, "So what?" he added, in a challenge.

"So what? So what!" Jack cried, obviously agitated, "You'se traitohs, all a' ya! Woikin' fa' Pulitzeh as delivery boys!"

"Hey, it's good money." Snitch said defensively, "We gotta live somehow, Jack."

"Ya don't gotta live bein' a scabbah." Jack eyes were narrowed, giving their messenger bags a look of loathing.

"C'mon, Cowboy, we ain't scabbahs." Skittery rolled his eyes, "There ain't even a strike on."

"We'se makin' four _times_ what we made as newsies." Snitch added, "And it's not so different; it's all sellin' papes. What else would ya have us do?"

"You'se guys could help us out oveh heah in Brooklyn! Instead a' deliverin' papes fa' Pulitzeh." Jack looked imploringly at the three former newsboys.

"You ain't gonna win this one, Jack." Skittery shrugged, "The union's all busted up and you know it. If you fellas in Brooklyn wanna keep tryin' ta fight fa' ya jobs, you'se gonna hafta do it wit'out us. Right, guys?" He looked at Snitch and Snipeshooter, who nodded silently. They knew it was a betrayal to the newsies, but they weren't prepared to give up their jobs for Jack and the others.

"C'mon, don't do this, Skit." Kid Blink pleaded.

"Stop me." Skittery sneered, turning away from him. "We'se got woik ta do, fellas, let's go." He said to Snitch and Snipeshooter. Lunch Money and Blink looked to Jack, wondering what to do. They couldn't soak their friends. Skittery, Snitch and Snipeshooter were practically brothers, like the rest of the Manhattan newsies. Jack's face was arranged in a tight, twisted expression, obviously dreading what he had to say next. But he had to say it. This was a war. They had to take out any opposition, even if it meant soaking their friends.

"Soak 'em." Jack spat, his jaw clenched. Jack, Lunch Money and Kid Blink ran after the delivery boys, who turned around in surprise.

"Jack whaddya doin'--?" Skittery barely got the sentence out before Jack hit him squarely across the mouth. He staggered, looking hurt and confused. Kid Blink jumped Snitch, leaving Snipeshooter for Lunch Money. Lunch Money gave Snipeshooter an apologetic look. It wasn't fair she had to take the little guy; Snipeshooter was even smaller than Lunch Money. She didn't waste time throwing punches and starting a prolonged scuffle, she just knocked him down with a rough shove and wrestled his messenger bag full of newspapers away from him.

"Lunch! Come on Lunch, give 'em back!" Lunch Money just turned a cold glare on him, not responding. She backed away from Snipeshooter, Skittery and Snitch, all of whom were now laying one the ground, caught of guard by the attack. All of them had lost their papers to Jack, Lunch Money and Blink. Snitch was the first back on his feet, looking furious.

"Hand 'em oveh, Blink." Snitch reached out a hand to take his papers back. Blink stepped away and shook his head. Snipeshooter and Skittery stood up as well, balling their hands into fists.

"Give 'em!" Snitch was exasperated. He charged at Blink, who dodged out of his way. Lunch Money shoved him against the brick wall behind him. Snitch scowled at her and knocked her onto the pavement. She managed to keep a hold of the newspapers, but she now had to struggle to keep hold of them as Snipeshooter was now trying to wrestle them away from her. Blink pulled Snipeshooter away from Lunch Money, allowing her enough time to jump back to her feet.

"Cheese it, Lunch!" Blink yelled, as he and Jack made ready to take flight from the scene. The three newsies tore down the street, their stolen papers in hand, leaving their former friends empty-handed and stunned. As Lunch Money ran, the full realization of what they were doing hit her.

Pulitzer and Hearst, apparently hell-bent on disposing their dependency on newsies, were systematically eliminating all possible ways for them to work. The newsies were now fighting newsstands, guarded with armed men, plus the home delivery service. Before, it had been a war between Pulitzer and the newsies. Now it had expanded. They were fighting their own friends. Lunch Money had just stolen Snipeshooter's papers, for crying out loud! _When did everything get so complicated?_ She wondered, still sprinting full out. It was like her entire world had collapsed in the last month. It was as Skittery said: they weren't going to win this one. It was hopeless odds. Too much was pitted against the newsies. But Lunch Money refused to give up, and just stiffened her resolve as she sprinted through the streets of Brooklyn. It was actually just off 86th street when the three newsies finally stopped to catch their breath.

"Can you believe those bums?" Blink asked between pants.

"I know! Damn traitohs. Two-bit double-crossehs." Lunch Money added viciously, "Actin' as stooges for Pulitzer and Hearst."

"Well, we ain't got time ta waste gripin' oveh them." Jack told his friends regretfully, "It's already past noon, and we have sold a single pape."

"Oh yeah." Lunch Money remembered. Selling papers. That _was_ their job. So they set off to start selling the newspapers, the newspapers they had stolen from fellow newsies. Blink and Lunch Money looked at each other sorrowfully. When had it come to stealing from their old comrades? How much longer would this war carry on like this? How much longer would the newsies survive? The gray sky above them perfectly reflected their mood, grim and freezing. So freezing, in fact, that by the time they had sold their last papes and returned for dinner at Liam's, snow had begun to fall.

"It's about time ya showed up." Mush grinned as Jack, Kid Blink and Lunch Money entered the diner, shaking snow off of their hats.

"Well, we had a slow start this mornin'." Jack said taking a seat between Mush and Racetrack. "You'se'll neveh guess who we ran into."

"Who?" Boots asked, interestedly.

"Snitch, Skittery and Snipeshooter." Kid Blink answered, his mouth wrinkled in distaste. "They'se woikin' as delivery boys."

"No!" The other boys gasped.

"Yes." Jack said darkly.

"Whaddya do?" Mush looked fearful, "Ya didn't soak 'em, didja?"

Jack nodded, "Yeah, we did. We stole their papes too." He, Blink, and Lunch Money looked slightly ashamed of themselves. Racetrack shook his head slowly.

"I don't believe 'em. The graftahs." He sneered down at his plate of French fried potatoes. The Manhattan newsies sat in silence for a moment, a miserable quiet that consumed all of them. Lunch Money's focus on Skittery Snitch and Snipeshooter's betrayal was averted when she noticed something out of place.

"Hey, guys… Where's Crutchy?" She asked, looking around in a would-be casual tone. She asked only hesitantly, for she wasn't sure if she really wanted to hear the answer. The boys exchanged pained looks and it was with some trepidation that Jack answered.

"He's back at the lodgin' house. Aftah the fight yestehday, we didn't think he'd be well enough ta go out today."

"But he's okay?" Lunch Money said quickly, alarmed by the boys' dismal attitudes. "Crutchy's gonna be al'ight, ain't he?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he'll be okay." Jack reassured her, "But he ain't doin' so well right now. It'll be a coupla days befoah he's back on his feet." Lunch Money winced. She wondered if this day could possibly get any worse.

But right then, a small favor from heaven made itself known via an equally small girl who poked her head in through the door of the restaurant, her face as excited as if it were Christmas morning.

"Look! Look outside! It's snowing!" She shrieked, bolting back outside the way she came. The older newsies rolled their eyes and looked skeptical. Of course it was snowing, they'd have to be completely blind not to notice. The younger newsies, however, leapt to their feet and pressed their faces against the nearest windowpanes. With hollers of excitement, the smaller newsies grabbed their coats and disappeared into the street.

"What the big deal?" Jack asked, "It's only snow."

"It's really comin' down out there." Boots observed. It was true; there was a full-on blizzard going on outside. Mush stood up, going to the window. He watched the thick snowfall for a moment, before turning to the other Manhattan newsies and yelling, "Let's go!"

Boots and Kid Blink darted out the door right behind him. Jack, Lunch Money and Racetrack hung back. They were in the midst of a serious situation; a crisis hitherto unimagined by the newsies. They hardly had time to go out playing in the snow like children. But, as they were children, Racetrack, Jack and Lunch Money couldn't resist at least going out to see what was going on.

Lunch Money paused just outside the door of Liam's, watching the chaos. Newsboys were a fairly rowdy and rambunctious group in any given situation. Add piles of snow, and you had yourself absolute anarchy. The usually grimy street was suddenly bright and fresh looking with the layer of pure white snow coating every surface. The bitter cold and slush always meant trouble for street rats. After the first few novel days of snow, it would quickly become an annoyance and hindrance. But this was the first snow of the season. And newsboys always welcomed it with a good snowball fight, or the construction of a snowman.

Lunch Money was brought out of her reverie by a lump of flying snow, which splattered spectacularly against the side of her head. She turned around, looking for the culprit. Spot stood several feet away from her, his customary smirk in place. Lunch Money knelt down, shoveling a handful of snow between her fingers.

"You're dead, Conlon!" She shouted after him, laughing in spite of herself. Spot ran. Lunch Money launched her snowball at him, but he dived out of its path, and the snowball hit Roundhouse full in the face. Roundhouse hastily packed together a snowball, ready to retaliate. But instead of getting Lunch Money, Roundhouses poor aim caused the chunk of slush to graze Kid Blink. After that it was a free-for-all. The newsies forgot that they were tired of losing fights. They forgot they were sore and bruised. They forgot that their futures as newsies hung by a thread. For the first time in a very long time, they were just wild street rats again, having fun on the streets of Brooklyn. They remembered what a fine life it truly was.

There were two who didn't participate in the frantic snow battle. Both Racetrack and Ritz stood near Liam's; carefully out of the way of the brawl. Each wore an unhappy expression as they watched the interaction of Spot and Lunch Money.

"Hey!" Lunch Money laughed as Spot came up behind her, dumping a large amount of snow right on top of her head, "You're talleh, that ain't fair; you can't pick on someone smalleh than ya!" She shook her snow-covered head, wiping the icy slush out of her eyes.

"It is too fair." He argued, "I ain't _that_ much talleh than you'se is. See?" Without thinking about it, Spot stepped close to Lunch Money, so that they were face-to-face. "See? I'm only an inch or so talleh. Anyway, I thought the sayin' went, 'All's fair in love and war.' That includes snow wars." Lunch Money looked at him curiously.

"Yeah. Yeah, they do say that." She said quietly.

"Ya have snow in ya hair." Spot grinned, brushing the worst of it off. He gave Lunch Money a wise guy smirk, knowing full well that the aforesaid snow in her hair was his own doing.

"No, ya think?" Lunch Money rolled her eyes, pretending her heart hadn't skipped beat when Spot touched her, however innocent the contact had been.

They were standing only inches apart, now both of them were awkwardly aware of this fact. Spot's eyes roved over Lunch Money's face taking in her delicate features. It registered with Lunch Money just how gorgeous his eyes were. The moment lengthened, only cut short when Lunch Money came to her senses.

"Think fast, Conlon!" Lunch Money said, dodging around him and flinging a handful of snow at him as she sprinted away. Her heart was racing, and she found herself breathless. Her stomach felt like some alive was squirming inside it. She felt suddenly shaky on her feet.

Lunch Money couldn't remember the last time she'd felt more afraid. Even when she'd been assaulted in that alley a few weeks ago, Lunch Money's fear during the attempted rape didn't even measure up to how she was feeling now. It shouldn't have been any big deal. So he'd brushed some snow out of her hair. So they'd been standing close enough that she could smell him. And curiously enough, the stupid little street rat didn't smell as bad as one might have thought. Lunch Money shook herself mentally. What was wrong with her?

Ritz and Racetrack had watched in horror during their brief interaction. Ritz was now seething in a jealous rage that Lunch Money would dare flirt so brazenly with Spot. Racetrack looked stern, now terrified as he remembered the conversation between Nix and Lunch Money he'd overheard several days ago. For the rest of the evening, Racetrack kept a scrutinizing eye on Spot, and a worried one on Lunch Money. Racetrack decided, right there in the snow, that this was as far as anything was going to get. He was going to have a little chat with his sister. He had to find out what was going on.


	13. There's Beauty in the Breakdown

It was later that night. Lunch Money, Nix, Starboard and Feivel were drying off and changing out of their clothes that gotten wet in the snow, getting into comparatively warm nightgowns. Lunch Money unwound her braids, letting her dark hair (also damp with snow) tumble down to her shoulders and hung up her clothes to dry on one of the bedposts of an empty bunk. The girls all talked merrily, in surprisingly high spirits, given their current employment situation. Though, as proven earlier that evening, snow had miraculous effects when it came to raising a child's moral.

This lighthearted air was quickly ruined, however, with the entrance of Ritz. Her company often darkened the overall mood of the girl's dormitory. She didn't waste any time or play any games tonight though. She marched right up to Lunch Money, who was innocently standing next to the bunk she and Nix shared, chatting casually with her bunkmate. Ritz planted herself in front of Lunch Money, hands on her hips and frowning.

"Yes?" Lunch Money asked in a falsely pleasant voice. In answer, Ritz raised her right hand and smacked Lunch Money across the face. Everyone was quiet, all eyes on either Lunch Money or Ritz. Lunch Money gave Ritz an exasperated look, rubbing the spot where Ritz had slapped her.

"Okay, what the hell?" She glared at Ritz, "Ritz, what the hell was that for?" Lunch Money clenched a fist, ready to take Ritz out with a good right hook.

"Oh stop pretending!" Ritz snapped, "I saw you and Spot tonight." Lunch Money felt a jolt of panic, but kept her cool.

"I don't know what ya talkin' about."

"Yeah right!" Ritz was practically foaming at the mouth, "Stop playin' dumb, I saw you'se two."

"What were they doin'?" Nix asked eagerly, exhibiting a poor judgment of when might be a good time to speak.

"She was flirtin' and carryin' on like some tramp!" Ritz gestured to Lunch Money who turned slightly red, "Don't even try to deny it, you slut." If anyone had tried calling Lunch Money a slut at any other time in her life, Lunch Money would have jumped the offender in less time that you could blink. But Lunch Money was too incensed to even bother with someone as worthless as Ritz. That, or Lunch Money was afraid that Ritz might be speaking the truth. Either way, Lunch Money just pushed past Ritz.

"Shut up, Ritz." Lunch Money muttered as she stalked toward the door.

"Oh, brilliant comeback, Lunch, I ain't eveh gonna recoveh from ya horrid woirds." Ritz scoffed, and added, "Whore." Lunch Money didn't even answer; she just strode out of the dorm, slamming the door behind her. Ritz sneered after her. Ritz knew Lunch Money was after Spot. It didn't take a genius to figure out.

In the corridor, Lunch Money stormed away from the room, wanting to put as much distance between her and Ritz as possible. She couldn't stand that girl. Cursing furiously under her breath, Lunch Money took the only escape she could see: the fire escape. Down the stairs a ways, on the landing between the girl's floor and the boy's, was a mid-sized window that led onto the black metal contraption. Lunch Money threw the window open, climbed out onto the fire escape and stepped into the freezing night air.

The snow had subsided some since earlier that evening, though Lunch Money did have to brush away several inches of snow piled up on the iron railing before resting her elbows on it. The fire escape was cramped between two buildings: the lodging house (obviously) and the dingy old drugstore next door. She leaned heavily against the cold railing, gazing off into space. Why hadn't she just decked Ritz? Lunch Money didn't understand. She always used to be ready for a fight. Now Ritz had gone and picked a fight, and Lunch Money had actually walked away. Lunch Money told herself that she had more important things on her mind than worrying about that bitch. But since when had Lunch Money Higgins been known to take the high road? She jumped slightly as she heard the window scrape open.

"You tryin' ta catch pneumonia?" Lunch Money didn't even turn around. It was Spot. He climbed out of the window to join her on the fire escape, sliding the window closed behind him. He stood next to her, glancing at her curiously and followed her gaze to meet the brick wall of the drugstore opposite the fire escape. Lunch Money stared straight ahead, resolved to ignore him as long as possible.

"Ya starin' at a brick wall." He smirked, referring to the aforementioned wall across the alley.

"What do you want?" Her words held an icy chill, and still she didn't bother to spare him a look.

Spot shrugged, "I saw ya storm out heah. Ya looked kinda upset. You okay?"

"I'm fine." Lunch Money replied automatically. Spot rolled his eyes and hoisted himself up onto the railing, so that he sat comfortably perched on the metal bar.

"You always say that. Is it eveh true?" He raised an eyebrow, smirking at her again.

"Yes." She said defensively, ignoring the adorable smirk.

"Shoah."

"Everything's just all messed up right now, okay?" Lunch Money snapped. It was true; everything _was_ messed up: She was living in Brooklyn, bunking with the newsgirls (who varied in their states of atrocity), the newsstands; the home deliveries. Everything.

"Everything." Spot repeated skeptically, that shadow of a smile playing around his mouth.

"_Yes, everything_." Lunch Money said waspishly. Before she knew it, she was pacing the fire escape (at least as well as a girl could pace in a space less than four feet across and three feet deep) ticking them off in a resigned voice. "This whole newsstand thing… now the home deliveries… meetin' Skittery an' Snitch an' Snipes today." She took a breath, "And Crutchy gettin' soaked. And Racetrack—I don't even know what's wrong with him."

She had stopped pacing now, thinking of her brother and how quiet he'd been the past few days. She plowed on, not even paying attention to what she was saying anymore, just enjoying venting openly for the first time weeks. "On top a' that, I gotta bunk wit' those bitches upstairs… then there's _you_— I mean--" Lunch Money stopped abruptly. Spot, who been watching her tirade with arched eyebrows and still balanced on the railing, gave Lunch Money a funny look.

"_What_ about me?" He asked, grinning, "I ain't been nuttin' but charmin'." He was joking, knowing that Lunch Money would probably start off on another rant solely directed at him. And what a horrible jerk bastard he was.

"Yeah, right." Lunch Money rolled her eyes. Charming. Sure.

"No, seriously," Spot said, now very curious as he slid off the railing. He stood facing Lunch Money, and asked again, "Whaddya mean when you said that?"

It was an opportunity to insult Spot. It was an opportunity to tell him exactly what an annoyance he was. But she surprised both Spot and herself by not saying anything. Spot's curiosity was now redoubled and he stared into her face, trying to read what was going through her head. She avoided his eyes, pretending to be incredibly interested in the light sprinkling of snowflakes around them. Trying to act as though everything was normal.

"Lunch." Spot's voice was quieter this time. "_What_ about me?"

Lunch Money forced her eyes to meet his. For a second they stared at each other, both serious, and confused at the same time. Spot was lost in her eyes. His brain was trying to pull him back to reality, but it was a hopeless struggle. And everything changed; his willpower suffered a complete breakdown. He refused to let himself think. He just kissed her lightly on the lips.

At first, she let him. It seemed so natural. And while Lunch Money hadn't been expecting it, the kiss didn't come as a surprise at all. Like it had all been planned. Perfectly planned. A second later, Lunch Money was the first to return to Earth. She pushed him away.

"Hey!" She gave Spot a look that plainly said _what the hell?_ They quickly stepped apart, their faces turned away from each other. The air seemed to vibrate out of the pure awkwardness of the situation. Spot was drowning in his own troubles. How could he have been so stupid? Did he really think, on any level, that kissing Lunch Money was a good idea? She obviously didn't. He was numbed with shock at what had happened, but still lost in the moment of the kiss.

Lunch Money was overwhelmed with a million ideas and thoughts and images. She could just see Racetrack flipping out. Mush and Blink making fun of her. Lunch Money didn't go around making out on balconies. Had she somehow switched lives with Ritz? Though, as hard as she tried to keep it out of her head, the memory of the kiss took up the majority of her thoughts.

Lunch Money looked over at Spot, who was still resolutely facing the opposite direction. Acting on sheer impulse, Lunch Money tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. This time she kissed him. The second kiss was slower, more passionate. It could have lasted days and neither would have noticed. The two of them stood, neither noticing nor caring about the snow coming down on their heads. Spot drew her closer, one hand resting on her waist, the other gently caressing her cheek. Around them, a bitter wind swept a flurry of snowflakes through the wiry skeleton that was the fire escape, making an eerie whistling noise that triggered reality for the both of them. They pulled away simultaneously, horror-stricken at what they had done.

"Whaddya doin'?" Spot asked, more than a little unnerved.

"_Me?_" Lunch Money cried indignantly, "You kissed me foirst!"

"Well, ya didn't hafta kiss me back." Spot stated, as though explaining the obvious.

"_Well, you didn't hafta kiss me in the foirst place!_"

"Well, I wouldn't have kissed if you couldn't just be like every other goil." Spot informed her angrily.

"What?"

"If you'se was any otheh goil, I woulda gotten you in bed already and that'd be it. I could stop thinkin' about ya. Get ya outta me head." Spot then added an aside more to himself than to Lunch Money, "Sex is all goils is s'posed ta be good fa' anyway."

"_What?_" Lunch Money asked again, this time offended.

"No!" Spot amended hastily, "I meant _otheth_ goils are. You'se is different. I doubt I'd stop thinkin' about ya even we _did-- _um..." He looked slightly embarressed, so he said again, "You'se is different, Lunch Money— but that's the problem, dammit!" He added, running his fingers through his hair distractedly, during a brief moment of silence.

"Racetrack would kill me." Lunch Money muttered, shaking her head. "Well, really, he'd probably kill you. And my friends!" Lunch Money's eyes widened, "Do ya have any idea how long I'se been tryin' ta get them ta take me seriously? Jack an' Blink an' Crutchy, an' alla them. They still think I'm some helpless little goil. I didn't spend my life actin' twice as tough as any a' them just to ruin my reputation by kissin' some boy."

"Oh yeah," Spot retorted, "That sounds so terrible. Ya friends'll figger out you'se a goil. Me, I'm the leadeh a' Brooklyn. How would look to the otheh boys if I… I mean, how much respect would I keep if…" He trailed off, glaring angrily at Lunch Money, like it was all her fault. "Look, I'm Spot Conlon. I don't get feelin's."

"Whoa, now there's _feelin's_?" Lunch Money stepped back, afraid of the word. Feelings. Spot had feelings for her? She had feelings for Spot?

"No." Spot said quickly.

Silence ascended upon them again. Lunch Money shivered in the cold, realizing for the first time just how much the temperature had dropped.

"Maybe." Spot broke the stillness, speaking slowly, "Maybe it's betteh if we pretend nuttin' happened."

"Yeah." Lunch Money said softly, "Maybe."

Without so much as a second glance, Spot brushed past her, taking the stairs of the fire escape down to the alley below. Lunch Money closed her eyes, her throat tight. She didn't cry. Only little silly girls cried. That's what Racetrack had told her when she was six. Racetrack had pushed her into a puddle, and Lunch Money had sat there sulking and crying while Racetrack made fun of her for being a girl. Since then, Lunch Money refused to let herself cry. After collecting herself, Lunch Money straightened her posture and turned back toward the window, ready to go to bed and sleep away this nightmare.

But when she turned around, all the air seemed to disappear from her lungs. Standing on the other side of the glass was the very last person she wanted to see. Lunch Money would have even preferred it if Ritz were the one waiting for her instead. Because there (once again displaying an uncanny knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time) stood Racetrack, and, judging by the look on his face, he had seen everything.


	14. The Older Brother

_Author's Note: First of all, I want to thank you guys for your great reviews—especially for the last chapter. I was pretty excited to finally get that chapter up, so I'm glad you liked it—or were properly frustrated by it. Second, I've got to apologize for how long I took in posting this chapter. It's been the wildest week at school, and I hated leaving the story hanging like that. But, no matter, it's up now for the world to read if they so choose. And now what you all came for: Chapter 14: The Older Brother.

* * *

_

Racetrack wrenched the window open. Lunch Money turned back to face the railing, her back to her brother. She couldn't do this. This couldn't be happening. Lunch Money knew she didn't have the strength to face her brother after what had happened; she was still reeling from the kisses she'd shared with Spot, only minutes ago. Had it really only been a few minutes? Their last kiss felt like it had happened an age ago. Lunch Money was already missing it. Her head was spinning; there was a queer squirming feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes were cast downward, toward the street below. Spot had had already disappeared around the corner at the end of the alley, for which Lunch Money was thankful, because Racetrack started with a less than quiet exclamation:

"What the _hell_ was that?" He demanded, stepping out onto the fire escape. Lunch Money didn't even move. She was frozen, and not just by the weather. "Tell me that me eyes were playin' tricks on me." He said, obviously horrified by what he had just seen, "Tell I did not just see me little sistah out heah neckin' wit' Spot."

When Lunch Money didn't respond, Racetrack turned her around roughly, his hands on her shoulders, "What's a' mattah wit' you goil?" he asked, giving her a little shake, "Are ya outta ya mind?"

Lunch Money glared at her brother and jerked away, her usual temper resurfacing, "Shuddit, Race, it was nuttin'!"

"Oh yeah," Racetrack laughed humorlessly, "That shoah _looked _like nuttin'! Don't even try lyin', Ava, I saw the whole thing."

Lunch Money jumped at the use of her real name. "Yeah, why were you'se standin' there anyway? Just spyin' on me?"

"No." He defended himself indignantly, "I was goin' upstairs ta talk ta ya about alla' this. I didn't believe it at foirst, when I hoird you n' Nix talkin' last week—"

"You _hoird_--?" Lunch Money began, outraged, but Racetrack kept talking.

"Yes, I hoird. And after I saw you'se two flirtin' earlier tonight, I was gonna talk ta ya, see what all this was about. But then I catch ya makin' out wit' him!"

"It didn't mean anything, Race." She told him angrily. That's what she and Spot had agreed: it had never happened. It hadn't happened.

"Oh please!" Racetrack snapped, "You don't know nuttin'. You don't know nuttin' about Spot. Of all the newsies in New York! Of all the _boys_ in New York! I don't care what that goil Nix has been tellin' ya, Lunch, Spot ain't gonna fall in love with no one, eveh. Ta him, goils are just a sport." He paused, trying to think of a way to phrase the ideas in his head. "He treats goils like I treat gambling." Lunch Money sent him a sideways look. What was he babbling about?

"I mean ta say, it's all about sex ta him. He don't care about anyone." Racetrack shook his head, disgusted. Lunch Money was quiet, contemplating he brother's words. He was saying everything that she herself had thought about Spot when she first met him. Just a conceited jerk with the one interest of getting a girl into bed.

"I think I can take care a' meself, Race." Lunch Money told her brother finally, glaring.

"No ya can't!" Racetrack snorted, "Dammit, Lunch, When have ya eveh been able ta look aftah yahself? Especially when it comes ta Spot. I woulda thought you'd be the last person I'd eveh see kissin' Spot Conlon— goes ta show, the boy can charm anyone. He really is as good as they say… Lunch, you'se is just a stupid little goil!"

"Race--!" Lunch Money protested.

"Look, if I know Spot, you'se is just a challenge ta him." Racetrack said crossly, not looking at Lunch Money.

"What?"

"He's used ta those sluts like Ritz an' Tease an' Rodeo. He's used ta goils jumpin' at the chance ta sleep wit' him. It's gotten too easy for him; he's probably bored." Racetrack shrugged, "Spot likes a challenge, and you ain't like any goil he's eveh met, I guarantee ya." Racetrack rolled his eyes, obviously not paying her a compliment, "You'se is tough and ya neveh shuddup, like otheh goils. Ya try ta act like a boy all the time." Racetrack was still avoiding her eyes. "I tell ya he's only thinkin' of the satisfaction he'll get when he breaks the s'posedly toughest goil in New York."

Lunch Money looked like she had been slapped. Of all the things Racetrack had said, this one cut the deepest. Did her brother really think she was some sort of whore, like Ritz? But the worst of it was the truth of Racetrack's words. It all fit: Spot had said it himself… _"If you'se was any otheh goil, I woulda gotten you in bed and that'd be it… Sex is all goils is s'posed ta be good fa' anyway."_ Of course! Of course Spot was just bored of his whores in Brooklyn. Just like Tease had gotten bored of the boys in Brooklyn and had moved onto Jack Kelly. Lunch Money couldn't believe she'd been taken in so easily—just like some priss, melting in Spot's arms. How cliché.

That's what Lunch Money's brain told her, at least. But a second voice awakened in her consciousness. It spoke wordlessly, only giving Lunch Money a vague feeling that Racetrack was wrong. At first, she ignored the feeling, but soon her fury at Racetrack spurred her thoughts to agree with the illogical notion. _What does he know about any of it, anyway?_ Lunch Money thought, even as she fought believing in the rather convincing argument Racetrack had presented.

Now severely confused, torn between believing that Spot really was only trying to get her in bed and wanting to believe it wasn't true, Lunch Money only gave Racetrack a murderous glare before storming to the window, sliding it open once again. She hesitated and turned back to her brother.

"You ain't gonna say nuttin' about this ta anybody." She told him firmly. Racetrack didn't say anything. They both knew it was he fully intended to return to the boy's dormitory and give the other Manhattan newsboys an earful about Lunch Money and Spot.

"Race?" Lunch Money prompted, "You swear you won't say nuttin'?"

"I swear."

Without another word, Lunch Money climbed back inside the lodging house, and hastily marched up the stairs to the girl's dorm. Racetrack watched her go, shivering in the light snowfall. He still couldn't believe what he had seen. The real question was, which one would he kill first? And did Lunch Money really think she had any idea of what she'd gotten herself into? She always acted like she knew what doing. This time she had no clue… she _was_ still just a stupid little girl, in over her head.

But Racetrack couldn't fret over this all night; it was already getting late. He clambered through the window, shutting it behind him. Brushing the snow off his vest and hat, Racetrack made his way back to the boy's dorm.

"Heya, Race," Crutchy greeted brightly, still propped up on pillows in his bunk, black and blue. The Manhattan boys had tried to keep it quiet, but Crutchy hadn't been doing so well since the big fight by the newsstands. Still, in typical Crutchy fashion, he was perfectly cheerful and optimistic. "Where were ya?"

"Just talkin' ta Lunch Money." He shrugged, in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. Behind him, Spot slipped into the room. Like Racetrack, he was covered in snow. Spot only caught the last few words out of Racetrack's mouth, but it was enough to stop Spot in his tracks.

"You'se was doin' what?"

Racetrack turned to face Spot. "I was just talkin' ta Lunch Money." If anyone else had laid a hand on his sister, Racetrack would have jumped him then and there. But it wasn't anyone. It was Spot Conlon. Racetrack still had to remind himself of that fact as he spoke to Spot. He even contemplated for a moment whether or not he should try taking a swing at him. But he thought better of it as soon as he looked at Spot. Besides, Racetrack had promised Lunch Money that he wouldn't say anything to anyone, and the other boys were sure to ask questions if he started beating up Spot for no apparent reason.

"You'se was talkin' ta Lunch Money?" Spot repeated, carefully keeping all trace of panic out of his voice.

"Yeah." Racetrack nodded, eyes narrowed, "Out on the fire escape. Ya know." Spot's heart stopped beating for a second. Racetrack knew! Racetrack must have seen them. Of all the people in the world, it had to be Racetrack. None of the alarms that were going off in Spot's head showed on his face. He wore his usual grim expression, not even flinching at Racetrack's angry stare. For a few moments, neither boy moved. Around them, the other newsboys were oblivious to the situation and happily prepared to turn in for the night.

"Spot! Hey, Spot," Jack said, catching sight of Spot. Jack had been looking for him all evening, "C'mon, some a' us wanted a counsel befoah tomorrow, talk strategy and stuff."

"Oh, yeah. Shoah." Spot answered, still shaken upon discovering Racetrack had seen him kissing Lunch Money. Racetrack gave Spot a final dark look, and Spot followed Jack to the far corner of the dormitory. He and Jack spent the rest of the night quietly conversing about their dire employment situation and how they might overcome it. No solutions were reached that night, but that may have been because Spot was not entirely focused on the matter of newsstands and delivery boys. He was more preoccupied with worrying about a different problem, a problem now involving not only one, but two of the Higgins siblings.

* * *

More than anything, Lunch Money wanted to fall asleep. Exactly how much sleep had she lost since meeting Spot Conlon? How many nights had it been that she'd stayed up thinking about him? She didn't want any of this to happen. She was too scared. Racetrack was absolutely right; Lunch Money had no idea what she had gotten herself into. And Lunch Money thought she had been quite confused enough _before_ talking to Racetrack. Now she was absolutely smothered by the arguments circling her brain. 

They had agreed: nothing had happened. Every time Lunch Money thought of those words her heart felt heavy. Like lead heart sinking to her stomach, poisoning everything. Lunch Money didn't know what she wanted. She didn't want to forget about kissing Spot. She didn't want to pretend nothing had happened. But she also didn't want anything else to happen between them; she couldn't be with Spot. Everything was too damn complicated. And Racetrack would never understand. Lunch Money herself didn't understand any of it either.


	15. The Pier

The struggle against Pulitzer and Hearst continued. The newsies focused solely on the steady extermination of delivery boys, rather than attempting to fight off the guards at the newsstands. Fortunately, none of the Manhattan kids ran into Snitch, Skittery, or Snipeshooter again that week, though several Brooklyn boys had reported that the three renegade newsboys had still been carrying out delivery services. But for Lunch Money, Spot and Racetrack, the fight to keep newsies on the streets of New York was not the conflict taking center stage. The problem foremost in their minds was the problem they were putting all their energies into pretending it didn't exist.

The next couple of days Lunch Money and Spot completely avoided each other, preferring to deal with the tension by not dealing with it at all. Spot and Racetrack weren't on the best of terms either, both too uncomfortable and angry to try to strike up a conversation. Probably the most obvious feud was that between Racetrack and Lunch Money. The Higgins siblings normally go along quite well, despite their occasional disagreements, so it did not go unnoticed when they were openly hostile towards each other. Jack and the other Manhattan boys were positively mystified by the angry glares that passed between Lunch Money and Racetrack and the lack of words they exchanged.

One person was quite pleased with the turn of events. That, of course, was none other than Ritz Barkley, who was practically giddy that Lunch Money and Spot were no longer speaking. They'd stopped arguing, they'd stopped "flirting". It was absolutely torturous for Lunch Money to watch Ritz so cocky, strutting around like the queen of Brooklyn. Ritz obviously thought that the confrontation between Ritz and Lunch Money had scared Lunch Money off, and was now . Ritz wasted much of her breath scoffing in Lunch Money's direction and making snide comments about what a wimp Lunch Money was. It took all of Lunch Money's self-control not to pound Ritz straight through the ground. Or at least admit to Ritz that she and Spot had kissed on the fire escape. Then maybe Ritz would die of jealousy and Lunch Money would at least be rid of the _darling_ girl.

But Lunch Money didn't say anything. And she shocked herself by not even trying to put Ritz into a body cast. She just took the abuse from Ritz, often accompanied by snickers from Tease and Rodeo, hoping if she ignored them, they would lose interest.

It was days before anything noteworthy happened. By that time, it was mid-December and the snow had lost all of it's magic, now brown and muddy in the streets. The temperatures continued to drop, and the newsies were thankful they at least had a lodging house to stay in at night. Therefore, it didn't seem the best idea to spend the following Thursday afternoon playing on the pier.

No one was swimming of course (none of them were quite that insane), but the Brooklyn newsies had a nice time on their usual stomping ground. Most of the wooden planks were completely frozen over and they had to tread carefully for fear of slipping on the slick surface. It snows on and off, off most of the time, thank goodness. All of the newsies were thoroughly sick of wading through piles of slush in the streets.

Lunch Money, Jack and Mush were the only newsies to accompany the Brooklyn newsies to the pier. Blink and Boots wanted to stay behind with Crutchy, and Racetrack (who was of course avoiding Lunch Money) opted to stay in the lodging house as well. Relieved to be finished fighting delivery boys for the day, Lunch Money and Mush spent the afternoon gleefully skating haphazardly across the frozen surface of the pier, twirling and skidding and often losing their balance.

"So, Lunch, how're things goin' wit' Spot." Mush asked, trying to hide a broad grin. Lunch Money slipped, falling hard on the ice. She sat up, rubbing her elbow.

"You been talking ta Race?" She asked angrily. Ooh, if Racetrack had squealed, Lunch Money would never forgive him. She knew she would simply die of shame of her friends ever found out that she had kissed Spot.

"No…" Mush said slowly, confused by Lunch Money's reaction, "Why?"

"Oh, ya know, Racetrack's just been paranoid lately." Lunch Money was impressed with her own quick lie. She was getting much better at lying. No poker face-- ha! Mush looked skeptical, but let it pass.

"Anyway, you and Spot?" Mush asked again eagerly.

"There ain't a 'me and Spot'" Lunch Money snapped, her temper rising and she got back to her feet, "Why the hell does everybody keep asking about that? In case ya haven't noticed, we hate each otheh!" Lunch Money glared at Mush, who smiled apologetically.

"Okay, Lunch, shh. Calm down."

"I'se calm!" Lunch Money lied feebly. Were she and Spot really that obvious? After all, Nix had figured it out. And Ritz had figured it out. _But this is Mush. _Lunch Money argued, _Mush! Everythin's about love with him. He is always suspectin' romance between people… for a while he even thought there might be something goin' on between Jack and David, for God's sake._ Mush decided to change the subject at that point, and for another hour or so, they and the Brooklyn newsies amused themselves.

It was getting dark when a rambunctious game, involving the chasing and capturing of Feivel (who had stolen a pocket watch from one of the older boys.), started to interest most of the newsies. The little girl laughed and shrieked curses that would shock a sailor, nimbly dodging out the clutches of the other newsies.

"Comin' t'rough! Comin' t'rough!" She cried, running smack into Lunch Money, who absorbed the shock of the impact by falling once again. Feivel went down too, but she immediately hoped back up and started running, off the pier and into the streets.

"Ya can't catch me!" Feivel called in a singsong to the others, swinging the golden watch around on it's chain. She very juvenilely poked her tongue out at the newsies and dashed off, pursued by the Brooklyn newsies.

"Here." A hand up was offered to Lunch Money. She took it, thinking it was Mush.

"Thanks" She said, once on her feet again. It wasn't Mush who had helped her up. It was Spot, of course. Who else would it be?

Lunch Money looked around. Mush had disappeared. As had Jack. As had the rest of the Brooklyn newsies. _Dammit Feivel, ya had ta be a thief. Everyone had to run after you, leaving us alone._ Lunch cursed to herself. It was the first time Spot and Lunch Money had spoken since their secret kiss. Or almost secret kiss. It was bound to be uncomfortable.

"So." Spot cast around awkwardly for something to say, "Er, how's your foot?" he asked, attempting to decrease the tension. Lunch Money answered, grateful to have something to say.

"It's good, it's good." She nodded, "It's pretty much healed up. Just a scar now."

"That's good… 'cos it looked pretty gross when you first got cut." Spot grinned, remembering trying to examine her foot in that alley, while she was trying to kick him away.

"Well, a lot a' the gore was lost when Crutchy took out the glass." Lunch Money winced at the memory. That removal had been agonizing, "Speakin' a' Crutchy, do ya know how he's doin'? I think the otheh boys are trying to keep quiet about what kinda shape he's in and I haven't seen him fa' days." Spot made a face, leaning against one of the ladders that led up to the higher levels of the pier.

"He's been betteh." Spot shrugged, "And he's been worse. He was able to get around betteh yesterday, but me an' Jack though he oughta keep off his feet fa' anudder day. Tomorrow he'll be back." Spot frowned, as though if he'd had it his way, Crutchy would not be going out to soak delivery boys in his current condition.

"Well," Lunch Money said, "At least he's doin' betteh. He was a wreck last time I saw him."

"Yeah." Spot opened his mouth as though he was going to add something else, but changed his mind and instead asked, smirking, "Are we havin' an actual conversation?"

Lunch Money tried not to smile. "I think we might be. We ain't exchanged insults all day."

"We must be growin' up." Spot caught Lunch Money's eye, and they started laughing. It probably wasn't even that funny, what they had said, but Spot and Lunch Money laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

"Spot!" A harsh voice rent the air, causing both Lunch Money and Spot to turn around, looking for the source of the voice. Ritz, apparently Spot's personal stalker, was making her careful way towards them, taking tiny mincing steps over the icy pier. Lunch Money couldn't help but notice she was dressed up nicer than usual. Clothes probably bought with the money Ritz had made sleeping around Brooklyn.

"Spot, come on, now, Jack and Tease are already waiting for us." She called sweetly. It was true; at the end of the pier was Jack, his arm around Tease, unmistakable with her flaming red hair. Lunch Money and Spot glanced at each other.

"I did tell Jack and them that I'd go wit' them tonight." He said chagrinned. Lunch Money just shrugged. "I'll see ya tomorrow?" Spot asked hopefully.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll see ya." Lunch Money said briskly, avoiding his eyes, "I shoulda gone back a while ago... Race'll be wonderin' where I am."

"See ya, Lunch Money." Ritz shot her a smug look before turning to Spot, "Oh, Spot, could ya gimme a hand on this ice? I'm so afraid I'll slip and fall…"

Lunch Money tuned the rest of the conversation out. She had heard about as much of it as she could stand. She turned around, looking out over the river, or at least what she could see of the river in the dark. With her back to the streets, Lunch Money never saw the deeply regretful look on Spot's face as he spared a last glance at her.

Once the party had rounded the corner, Lunch Money did not go back to the lodging house. At least not right away. Instead, she sat on the edge of the pier, her legs dangling over the end. So Spot was going on a date with Ritz. Of course. She'd been chasing him; he let himself be caught. And why not? Spot and Lunch Money weren't a couple. They weren't even close to being a couple. Spot was free to date whoever he wanted. _It's not like I even have feelings for him,_ Lunch Money insisted to herself, _Why should I care?_ But she did care. Yet as she sat there, forcing tears to remain inside her eyes, she came to the sudden, cold realization that everything Racetrack had warned her about Spot was absolutely true.


	16. Tales of the Broken Hearted

The next morning, Lunch Money was awakened several hours earlier than she would have liked. It was so early, it wasn't so much morning as the middle of the night. The sound of the door shutting, combined with the sounds of someone walking noisily across the dormitory and then an unnecessarily loud rummaging through one of the dresser drawers, caused Lunch Money to roll over and crack an eye open. It was Ritz.

"Ritz, whadadya doin'?" Nix asked sleepily, alerting Lunch Money that she was not the only one to awake at Ritz's inconsiderately loud entrance. Starboard and Rodeo sat up in bed, both quietly interested in Ritz's whereabouts.

"What's goin' on?" Feivel muttered, only half-conscious.

"Shh, everyone go back to sleep." Ritz said as she changed into her nightgown, "I'se just gettin' in from my date wit' Spot." Her eyes flicked toward Lunch Money as she said this, hoping to see a reaction. Lunch Money turned over onto her other side, determined not to let Ritz see the look on her face.

"You'se was out wit' Spot?" Nix asked, sounding skeptical.

"What happened?" Feivel sat up, the seven-year-old exhibiting a disturbing interest in hearing the personal particulars of the date.

"Oh, show a little sensitivity, Feiv." Ritz giggled, "I don't think Lunch Money really wants ta heah all the intimate details of me an' Spot, do ya, Lunch?" Lunch Money didn't move, pretending to have dozed off with her eyes screwed shut. Her stomach had twisted itself into an intricate knot and she wished she could evaporate on the spot. Ritz folded her clothes and placed them inside the top drawer of her dresser. She walked slowly toward Lunch Money's bunk, sneering as she sank onto the bunk next to Lunch Money's. Ritz crossed her legs daintily, a maddening superior air about her.

"Ya knew it would end this way." She giggled. Lunch Money sat up.

"Whadadya talkin' about?" She asked dully.

"Ya neveh had a chance wit' him, Higgins." Ritz drawled. Lunch Money looked sharply in Ritz's direction. Ritz caught the look, and just laughed. "Yeah, like Spot was really gonna think anything a' some lowlife street rat— ya gotta loirn ya place, Higgins. You'se is just a street trash newsgoil from Manhattan." Ritz narrowed her eyes as Lunch Money's expression of fury intensified. "You got nuttin' ta interest a boy like Spot, so why don'tcha stop wastin' ya time?"

Now Lunch Money was on her feet. How dare _Ritz_ call her a lowlife! If anyone was the lowlife, Lunch Money thought the finger ought to be pointing at Ritz, queen of the prostitutes. The girls around them were silent; Feivel was wide-eyed and almost grinning in anticipation of a fight. Nix looked slightly concerned, but let the events unfold.

"_I'se_ the lowlife then?" Lunch Money growled, "What would that make _you_, I wondeh." Another thought occurred to her, "And if you'se is so shoah Spot wouldn't be interested in a goil like me, why d'ya get so mad wheneveh I talk ta him… Like you'se afraid he'll be sleepin' wit' me next." Lunch Money smirked and shook her head, "But don'tcha worry 'bout that, 'cos I got absolutely no interest in a boy like Spot." Another lie, but Lunch Money did her best to believe her own words. Ritz obviously didn't believe her, because she got to her feet as well, and cracked her hand across Lunch Money's mouth for the second time in less than a week. For a second Lunch Money froze, her own hand covering the skin that had been stung by Ritz's slap.

Lunch Money had had enough of this. Enough of Ritz. Her volatile temper finally bubbling over, Lunch Money launched herself at Ritz. In another second, the two girls were on the floor, slapping, punching, pulling hair, kicking; doing whatever they could to inflict damage on the other. Starboard shrieked and dove under her sheet, as though the white cotton would provide some sort of protection. Feivel was the first her feet, excitedly watching the brawl.

"Outta the way, Feivel!" Nix shoved the youngest newsgirl aside and rushed to break up the fight. It was quite a task to do so; it took both Rodeo and Nix to pull Lunch Money and Ritz apart.

"What a' mattah wit' ya?" Lunch Money yelled, still trying to fight Nix off so that she could take a few more swings at Ritz. "I ain't—I ain't done nuttin' ta ya, you bitch!"

"What the hell's goin' on up heah?" Roundhouse stood just outside the door, apparantly on his way back from brushing his teeth in one of the bathrooms. "It's middle a' of the n— damn, are ya tryin' kill each otheh?" He asked incredulously, eyeing Ritz's black eye and frazzled hair and Lunch Money's bloody nose and torn nightgown. The girls heard more movement from the lower floor; it seemed every newsboy in the lodging house was willing to give up an hour of sleep to watch a catfight. The voices of newsies calling to each other and making lewd jokes as they thundered up the stairs in hopes of catching the last bits of the fight.

"Break it up, break it up!" A cool voice commanded from the bottom of the stairs. Spot. The newsboys scattered, hurrying back to their own dorm. Spot, on the other hand scaled the stairs and paused outside the girl's room. He took in the scene: Nix and Rodeo were still carefully keeping Ritz and Lunch Money separated. The two younger girls were still watching the proceedings from their bunks, and right in the middle it all was Ritz and Lunch Money, giving each other glares that could kill lesser girls.

He genuinely had to keep himself from laughing; somehow, Spot felt that laughter would not be well received in this situation. But he had never seen Ritz in such a state of disarray, and he inwardly applauded Lunch Money's efforts to knock her down a few pegs. And Lunch Money was nothing short of charming, from the sneer she was giving Ritz, to the flecks of blood on her torn nightgown, to the way she impatiently combed her hair away from her eyes.

"What happened?" He asked, trying to remain focused and professional, "You'se goils is wakin' up the whole house, tryin' kill each otheh."

"Well, Ritz came in heah," Nix was the first to speak, "And woke us all up. Then she and Lunch Money got inta some argument and Ritz slapped Lunch, so Lunch retaliated and… that's pretty much what happened." She ended lamely. Spot looked carefully from Lunch Money to Ritz. Ritz gave him a pouty, damsel-in-distress look, while Lunch Money refused to look at him at all.

"Okay." Spot shrugged, "Listen, nex' time you'se wanna kill each otheh, try ta be a little quieteh about it. Or at least schedule the fight so's we boys can come up and watch wit'out havin' ta lose any sleep."

* * *

"So, what really happened?" Was Spot's greeting to Lunch Money the following afternoon. They were at Liam's for lunch, a quick break between beating up delivery boys. Lunch Money had chosen a booth near the back, hoping to avoid sitting with anyone. Spot, of course, had found her immediately and slid into the seat across the table. 

"What, last night?" Lunch Money asked, caught off guard by the direct manner in which Spot chose to conduct the conversation.

"Yes, last night. You an' Ritz, what was all'a that?"

"Nix told ya. We argued, she slapped me, I jumped her." Lunch Money was actually telling the truth here. She just left out a couple of minor details.

"What'd ya say ta make her so mad?" Spot was clearly not going to let the matter drop, "Ya didn't say anything about--?"

"No!" Lunch Money said hastily, afraid for a moment that he might speak of the kiss out loud, and in a public place no less, "No, nuttin' like that. She just told me," She took a breath and made extra care to arrange her facial expression into that of apathy and boredom, "She just told me that she had a great time on her wit's you last night, and that theah was no way you'd have any interest in a goil like me." She shrugged, a slightly over exaggerated gesture, "She seems ta think theah's sumptin' goin' on wit' us."

"So, what'd ya say ta that?" Spot asked, not very good at concealing his curiousity.

"I told her not ta worry about me stealin' you away from her, 'cos I got no interest in a boy like you."

"And she slapped ya?" Spot asked incredulously, pretending he hadn't noticed the last words out of Lunch Money mouth. _No interest in a boy like you. Ya hoird her Conlon, _He said to himself, _Give it up, already._

"Yeah."

"She's such a bitch." Spot shook his head.

Lunch Money gave him a look, "A bitch? Ya went out wit' her last night."

"It didn't mean nuttin'." He said explained, "Jack just wanted someone ta double date wit', so I said I'd come along if me found me a date." Lunch Money rolled her eyes. Yeah, Spot's date with Ritz had been completely innocent. Right.

"Yeah, and that's why she came back ta our dorm at three in the mornin'?" Lunch Money laughed cynically.

"Please, if anything had happened wit' me an' Ritz, she wouldn't'a come back at all, the next you'd be seein' her would be at breakfast— I mean," He amended, grinning sheepishly Lunch Money, who did not look amused, "No, nuttin' happened wit' me an' Ritz. Why do you care anyway?"

"I don't care." Lunch Money snapped, "When did ya heah me say that I cared?" She stood up to leave, but Spot had one more question he needed an answer to.

"Hey, Lunch? What if Ritz was wrong about me? About the kinda goils I'se interested in?"

"She ain't wrong." Lunch Money told him shortly. Were they really going to get into this now, right in Liam's?

"Then what about you?" he asked, "Were ya tellin' the truth?" Spot had to know. Had Lunch Money really been telling the truth when she said that she had no interest in a boy like him?

Lunch Money stopped short at the question. She wheeled around slowly to face Spot, looking serious, "Even if I wasn't tellin' the truth, would it make any difference?"

He knew what she meant. Even if he was in love with her, and she loved him back, they couldn't do anything about it. Spot wasn't about to jeopardize his position as the leader of Brooklyn; he would not have the other newsboys questioning his strength or lack thereof if he let personal feelings get in the way of anything. And Lunch Money would never relent and dispose of her tough, tomboy façade. They both had reputations to protect and had no time to wander around falling in love. Love was too dangerous and unpredictable. Love was for weaklings; those who depended on the support of another person to get through life.

"No. No, I guess it wouldn't make any difference." He answered quietly. Lunch Money nodded and gave Spot a sort of half-smile before turning and exiting the restaurant, venturing out into the wintry streets. Spot watched her go. Funny, he had spent so much of his life telling his friends and enemies that he had no heart; Spot almost believed it. Spot knew now that he must have a heart; that pain he felt every time he saw or thought of Lunch Money had intensified just now as she walked away from him. He knew he had a heart, because it had just been broken.


	17. Costs of War

"Pass the ketchup." Lunch Money called down the table. It was breakfast time, and the Manhattan newsies were all comfortably seated in Liam's, ravenously devouring their meals.

"Oh, ya want the ketchup, now." Racetrack muttered nastily to her as he handed her the bottle of red condiment. "Should I give you'se two a minute alone too?"

"Oh please, Race," Lunch Money scoffed, as she drowned her scrambled eggs in the sauce, "When've ya eveh given me a minute alone? Even when I think I'm rid a' ya fa' half a minute, I just find ya spyin' on me anyways."

The Higgins siblings glared at each other. It had been this way all week, with snide comments and furious looks passing between them, and the other five Manhattan newsies thoroughly perplexed by their behavior. Racetrack had kept his word and not breathed a word about what he had seen on the fire escape, but he was still seething for the incident, and terrified of what would come next. He knew how Spot operated. Racetrack knew exactly how charming and sly Spot could be, and he had no faith that his little sister would be able to refuse him. But, apart from the hostile chemistry between he and Lunch Money and the dangerous tension he and Spot experienced, Racetrack was still trying to maintain a normal front for the benefit of the other boys. If only for Lunch Money's sake.

"What's goin' on wit' you'se two? You been at each otheh's t'roats all day." Jack said, annoyed with the pair of them. "What's up?"

"Nuttin'." Racetrack and Lunch Money answered in unison, still glowering at each other.

"Right." Jack rolled his eyes. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, rising to his feet. "Let's get goin' anyways. It's gettin' to be about time for those damn graftahs ta show up. Let's get 'em. You ready, Crutchy?"

"Yeah, let's soak 'em." Crutchy grinned. His presence was the silver lining in every that had gone wrong in the last few weeks. After many grim discussions in the boys dorm, it was finally determined that Crutchy was well enough to return to the streets of Brooklyn. Lunch Money noticed that Jack was still protectively sticking close to Crutchy, and the poor gimp still had some difficulty getting around quickly. He did look much better than the last time Lunch Money had seen him, though, so that was a bit of good news.

All the newsies of Brooklyn started out of the restaurant, ready to slam some delivery boys to the pavement. They congregated around the circulation office, fists raised. The gates of the office opened, and the brigade of delivery boys stepped forward, their jaws set. At the very head of the group was the three former Manhattan newsies: Snitch, Snipeshooter and Skittery. Jack and Kid Blink glanced at each other. Were they going to have to fight their friends again? Before anyone had time to even make a move toward the delivery boys, Skittery stepped out from the throng.

He looked serious, and he addressed Jack and Spot, who were angrily watching him. "Jack, Spot, all'a you guys." Skittery said in a warning tone, "Don't try nuttin' today. Pulitzeh's called fa' backup fa' the delivery boys."

"We don't care." Spot answered coldly.

"I'm serious." Skittery insisted, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "He's got the bulls heah and everything. Just let us t'rough. If ya try ta soak us, we'll just call for the police."

"Aw, c'mon Skit, ya wouldn't." Mush said fearfully.

"I would. Now lemme t'rough. I got papes ta deliveh." He tried to shove his way between Jack and Spot. A mistake. The fists whirled so quickly that no one could tell who had hit Skittery first, and the next thing anyone knew, Skittery was on the ground. He yelled to the other delivery boys, still hovering just inside the gates, and the shrill sounds of several whistles went up. The response was immediate. The cops seemed to appear out of nowhere, and the Brooklyn newsies were suddenly under attack.

Dozens of slingshots were whipped out and the Brooklyn boys began firing against the officers. The cops were well armed though, and had come in great numbers. Lunch Money and Mush found themselves thrown to the rough cobblestones before they even knew what hit them. All around, newsies were being beaten and dragged off by the police force. Lunch Money struggled to her feet, giving Mush a hand up. Out of breath and bleeding, they surveyed the scene before jumping in to help their fellow newsies. The brawl was more a blood bath than a fair battle, so much that barely five minutes into the fight, Spot yelled at the top of his voice.

"Cheese it! Newsies, get outta heah! Run!"

Lunch Money barely heard Spot's orders, for at that moment, a movement had caught her eye. Crutchy. He was being heartlessly dragged off by one of the bulls, his crutch was nowhere in sight and he was helpless to defend himself. Lunch Money was not the first to have noticed Crutchy's peril, however. Jack and Racetrack ran to his aide, dodging the cops and struggling to free Crutchy from his captors. Lunch Money was rooted to the spot in horror as she watched one of the policemen club Jack over the head, knocking him unconscious.

"Newsies! Scram! Scram!"

Most of the newsies didn't need Spot to say it twice; they were already gone, most of them. Lunch Money ignored the rest of the boys running away the fight, and she ran straight toward the struggle Racetrack, Crutchy and Jack were entangled in. With Jack unconscious, now being dragged away by one of the larger officers, Racetrack was the only one left to help Crutchy. Lunch Money shoved her way closer to the fight, picking up her pace while she watched yet another cop join the fray, pulling Racetrack away.

"Racetrack!" She shouted, oblivious to the chaotic remnants of the fight around her. Lunch Money made to go after the thug who was arresting her brother, but she was pulled back. Spot had seen the idiot girl about to attempt rescuing her friends against a platoon of law enforcers, so he seized her by the wrist and yanked her back.

"Whadda'ya think you'se doin', ya stupid goil?" Spot yelled over the din of the fracas, "You wanna get arrested too? Get outta heah!" He gave her a little shove to get her moving, and Lunch Money heeded his words, only pausing to give him a last glare.

"Go!" He shouted. What was she waiting for? With Lunch Money finally off to safety, Spot scanned the scene of the fight. All the newsies were gone; they'd all escaped except for three: Jack, Racetrack and Crutchy.

* * *

It was a subdued afternoon. The newsies of Brooklyn all gathered in Liam's, silently mourning the arrests of Jack, Racetrack and Crutchy. The remaining Manhattan newsies were taking it the hardest of course; Lunch Money, Boots, Kid Blink and Mush merely sat in a booth out of the way of everything, not talking or eating much. Not only had Jack (their esteemed leader), Racetrack (the good humor and energy of the group) and Crutchy (the sunny optimism of the group) been arrested, but also their captures heralded future problems. Soon any protesting newsie would be arrested for going against Pulitzer. One by one, the Brooklyn newsies would be picked off and sent to the refuge. 

Lunch Money couldn't believe this was happening. She didn't even remember the last thing she'd said to Racetrack... but she knew it hadn't been friendly. She might never get the chance to make up with her brother. And knowing Racetrack, he'd be losing all sorts of sleep, wondering how Lunch Money was getting on without having him babysit her. Lunch Money inwardly rolled her eyes at that thought. Despite what he brother might think, she was perfectly capable of surviving without some constantly trying to parent her. Anyway, she still had Blink and Mush to look after her... And, oh, poor Crutchy! He was barely mobile when they arrested him; how would he handle the refuge now. Lunch Money knew Crutchy had gotten through the refuge before, and he had come out fine. But she still worried for her friend. Jack would probably be alright, but he was likely to get himself in trouble with his big mouth. Lunch Money was more concerned about what everyone outside the refuge would do if Jack Kelly wasn't free.

Spot stood near the front window. He had sent out some of his better sleuths on a reconnaissance mission. Brooklyn had had very few dealings with the refuge since Snyder was fired as warden of the joint. Whispers of a warden as cruel, if not more so, had reached Spot's ears, and he was curious about the current security of the refuge. Had the security been lowered since the last time they'd attempted to spring a fellow orphan? Or had the security been tightened, so as to make an escape attempt more difficult? Spot needed to know the basic obstacles and layout of the building before planning any maneuver that might put any of his newsies at risk. But, regardless of the risks, they had to get Jack, Racetrack and Crutchy out of the refuge.

It was almost three hours before the information he had been waiting for showed up. Feivel and Roundhouse stumbled into the restaurant, both panting heavily and red in the face, like they had sprinted all the way from the refuge. Their clothes were covered in mud and slush, and they looked a complete mess. Feivel regained her composure first, and spoke to Spot while Roundhouse tried to catch his breath.

"You'se-- ya" Feivel swallowed, trying to sort out the panicked words and sentences she needed to get out of her mouth, "Ya can't go theah. None a' us would be able to get in or outta theah wit'out bein' noticed. They know—they'se is ready fa' all'a us to come rescue Jack and the othehs. The warden's usin' them as bait. Theah's cops on every roof, at every entrance—"

"They'se armed too." Roundhouse interrupted, "It's true, we'd neveh get outta theah alive."

All the newsies in Liam's waited with baited breath; hanging on the words of the two youngest newsies and waiting for a verdict from Spot. Lunch Money didn't care what Feivel and Roundhouse had to say; they had to at least try to help Jack, Racetrack and Crutchy. She watched Spot carefully, wondering if he would ignore Feivel and Roundhouse's advice and organize a rescue mission anyway—well what did it matter if he did or not? If Spot decided not to try and break the boys out of the refuge, Lunch Money would do it herself.

Finally, Spot spoke, "If they'se usin' them as bait, we don't really got a choice." He almost smiled, "We'se gonna hafta take the bait."

The newsies looked pleased, but still grim at the thought of trying to break into the refuge with it's newly heightened security. The rest of the afternoon was spent planning: two days from that night they would break into the refuge and help Racetrack, Jack and Crutchy escape. After dinner, the crowd of newsies dispersed, and (despite being a little bruised and sore from the fight earlier) they were a bit less worried than they had been.

Lunch Money took to the streets too, but when she looked around, she realized that her friends (who had been right behind her a second ago) were no longer there. She doubled back a few steps, peering into the window of Liam's. There they were. Boots, Mush and Kid Blink had all been delayed. They were still inside, and Spot seemed to be earnestly discussing something with them. Lunch Money tapped on the window and caught Blink's eye. She motioned him to come outside. Blink nudged Mush, who looked up to see Lunch Money too. Both boys looked slightly guilty, but Lunch Money was too impatient to notice.

All three of the Manhattan newsboys joined Lunch Money in the cold street a second later. They didn't mention what Spot had stopped to talk to them about, and Lunch Money didn't ask. The group of friends only focused on normal, lighthearted conversation, passing the rest of the evening laughing and carrying on like old times. It was all an act, an act to help them forget that their best friends were in danger. To help them forget that their entire world had been pulled out from under them.


	18. The Reason

Later that same night, Lunch Money climbed the stairs to the girl's dorm, bidding Mush, Kid Blink and Boots good night. Her heart was heavy with the day's events and she couldn't stop worrying about Racetrack and her friends. She was greatly looking forward to busting them out of the refuge; it would be an enormous relief to have the mess over and done with. But, of course, nothing is ever so simple.

Lunch Money pushed open the door of the dormitory, ready to get to sleep. The day had been long and exhausting, and Lunch Money had been dreaming of her (relatively) warm bed for the last two blocks between Liam's and the lodging house. The other girls were already cozy in their nightgowns and having a game of cards before bed, the ritual Feivel made the other boarders abide by. Yawning widely, Lunch Money was undoing her braids before she'd even bothered to take off her coat.

She registered dimly that Rodeo and Tease were still out. They probably were going to work through the night. But Ritz was conspicuously present, not participating in the poker tournament and scowling at everyone. Lunch Money didn't even want to think about the silly fight she'd had with Ritz the other night. It all seemed so far away, like another life. Now, with her brother in jail, along with Jack and Crutchy, and her confusion over Spot at an all-time high, Lunch Money didn't have the energy to care about Ritz.

"Hey guys." Lunch Money muttered sleepily, shrugged off her coat and tossing it unceremoniously over one of the metal posts. Feivel looked up. She wore a puzzled expression; a sort of sneer and squint combination, like she couldn't quite comprehend the words coming out of Lunch Money's mouth.

"Whadadya doin' heah?" She asked curiously. It was Lunch Money's turn to look puzzled.

"I live heah." Lunch Money rolled her eyes.

"No! I mean, whadadya doin' heah, when Spot an' Mush an' Kid Blink an' Boots is goin' out ta the refuge tonight? I woulda thought ya'd be goin' wit' 'em." Lunch Money froze.

"_What?_ We ain't goin' 'til day aftah tomorrow." She told Feivel, frowning.

"Yeah, yeah, that's what he told the othehs." Feivel nodded, "But then aftah everyone left, he stopped all'a ya Manhattan newsies an' told ya that you five were goin' tonight in secret."

"I neveh hoird that!" Lunch Money was fuming. They were planning to go without her? She would murder every last one of them if Feivel was telling the truth. "How d'ya know that, Feivel?"

"I was spyin' on 'em." She shrugged. Oh, of course. The little criminal. Lunch Money shook her head.

"I was talkin' ta me friends just now. They woulda told me if they were goin' tonight."

"Did they?"

"No."

"Then they lied ta ya." Feivel said simply, "'Cos I know I hoird Spot tellin' them about a new plan that they'd be carryin' out tonight."

"Feivel, if you'se is lyin' 'bout this, I'll kill ya." Lunch Money said threateningly. Little Feivel seemed coolly unconcerned by the death threats.

"I swear it, I ain't lyin'." Feivel told her, "For reals. If ya don't wanna believe me, then you can go ahead an' go ta bed an' let the boys take care of the mission."

"Really, she ain't lyin', Lunch." Nix spoke up, "I'se was listenin' wit' Feiv." Reading the look on Lunch Money's face, Nix added, "We only eavesdrop outta concern fa' our friends."

If they were indeed telling the truth, and the boys were going to break Jack, Racetrack and Crutchy out of the refuge tonight without even telling her, Lunch Money wanted to have some choice words with her friends. And force them to take her along, because a snowball had a better chance in hell than Lunch Money had of not assisting in her brother's rescue.

"Thanks fa' tellin' me, guys." She growled, stalking to the door, "But if you'se made this up, you'se is dead." She gave a final warning before shutting the doors soundly behind her.

Lunch Money thundered down the stairs, making a beeline for the boy's dormitory. She didn't even bother to knock when she threw open the door to of the boy's dorm. There were cries of indignation, but Lunch Money took them in her stride. Her eye did not fall on the boys in less than decent states of dress, but on four boys near the far wall. They were talking in hushed voices and hurriedly packing bags. She strode over to the little knot, utterly livid.

"It's true!" She glared at the company of boys, "Feivel an' Nix was actually tellin' the truth! You'se is goin' ta the refuge tonight?" Mush, Blink and Boots had the courtesy to look guilt-ridden, and they looked to Spot to answer Lunch Money's outraged question. Spot glanced up to meet Lunch Money's eyes for a split-second.

"Yeah." He said shortly.

"Was anyone plannin' on tellin' me?" Lunch Money demanded. There they all stood, going off to save Jack, Racetrack and Crutchy from the refuge without letting her come along, or even telling her about the operation. The Manhattan newsboys looked at Spot to answer again. This time he didn't even bother to look up.

"No." Simple as that. No, he was not planning on telling her that they were going to the refuge that night. Lunch Money glared at Spot before rounding on her friends.

"Boots!" She chided, looking into each of their faces in turn, "Blink! Mush! I was wit' ya all day, why didn't ya say anything about this? Why didn't ya tell me?"

Mush shifted uncomfortably, looking chagrined, "Well, Spot said not ta tell anyone that we was goin' ta night. He said he wanted ta keep it quiet so the bulls wouldn't ovehheah anything."

"Yeah, okay." Lunch Money said impatiently, "But why couldn't ya tell _me?_"

The three Manhattan newsboys were quiet. They didn't want to answer this question. The pause lengthened as they struggled to think of a way to avoid telling Lunch Money the answer, until Spot spoke for them.

"They didn't tell ya that we was goin' tonight, because I told them not to." Spot narrowed his eyes, giving Lunch Money a cold look. He shouldered a thick coil of rope and started in the direction of the door, but stopped at the sound of Lunch Money's voice.

"Why would ya do that?" She asked, looking angry and hurt.

"'Cos I knew if ya found out, you'd wanna come too." Spot shrugged casually, as though explaining the obvious. He then turned away, motioning for Boots, Blink and Mush to follow him. But Lunch Money dodged around Spot and planted herself in his path. He wasn't going to get away with this so easily.

"A' course I'd wanna come! Me brudder's in theah, dammit, and I got just as much right ta be in on this as they do!" She gestured to Mush, Blink and Boots, who were watching the action with wide eyes, unsure of which side to take. Spot just shook his head.

"It's gonna be dangerous. Mind gettin' outta me way?"

Lunch Money didn't move, she only gave Spot a nasty look and snapped, "I think I can handle it."

"Lunch Money, ya don't get it." Spot said impatiently, "Didn't ya heah Feivel an' Roundhouse? It'd be a miracle if any a' us gets out wit'out bein' caught. Armed guards, they got now. It ain't some mattah a' stealin' cigars from a vendor; someone could get hurt."

"So what?" Lunch Money said through gritted teeth. Did they all really think she was that useless? "I don't care."

Spot rolled his eyes and went around Lunch Money, again motioning for the boys to follow him. It was starting to get late and they had to leave.

"Lunch, you ain't goin', that's final. I'm done arguin' wit' ya about this."

"'_That's final'?!_"Lunch Money repeated heatedly, "Now ya just orderin' me around? You ain't even given me a good reason why I shouldn't go." Spot ignored her, angrily waiting for Mush, Blink and Boots to grab their rope coils and slingshots so they could leave. The sooner they left, the better, as far as Spot was concerned.

"Spot, I ain't gonna let this drop until ya at least tell why ya don't me goin' wit' ya." Lunch Money remained adamant and stubborn.

"Fine!" Spot exploded, turning to glare at her. Then, forcing his tone quieter and speaking slowly so that his voice wouldn't shake, "Fine. You wanna know the reason I don't want ya ta come? 'Cos I love you too much, okay?"

That, Lunch Money had not been expecting. Her mouth fell open in surprise and the entire room went silent. All eyes were on either Spot or Lunch Money, who held eye contact for only a couple of seconds before breaking their gaze, So much confused emotion had been exchanged in that brief look, and neither wanted to deal with those feelings at the moment. Or ever.

Clearing his throat to break the silence, Spot instantly refocused on the task at hand. "C'mon, fellas, we gotta get ta the refuge." Mush, Blink and Boots (all of whom looked shell-shocked) quietly followed Spot out of the dorm. Lunch Money watched them go, tears starting to well in her eyes. She swallowed and looked around. All the remaining Brooklyn newsboys were staring at her, open-mouthed.

"Whadadya lookin' at?" She sighed, not in an angry tone, but more a defeated, crushed one. With that, she slowly walked out of the boy's dormitory and trudged up the stairs to the girl's dorm. She didn't say anything to any of her roommates; she just climbed right into bed, stopping onlylong enough to take off her shoes. Feivel and Nix just shrugged at each other, and all the newsgirls chose to let Lunch Money alone.

The gloomy atmosphere Lunch Money had brought into the girl's dorm seemed to be contagious, and all the girls went to bed early that night. Nix and Starboard stayed up a while longer, discussing their suspicions about Lunch Money and Spot, every so often glancing at Lunch Money sleeping in the bunk below Nix. At one point, both Starboard and Nix drifted off. By then it was deep into the night, but there was still one boarder awake.

Lunch Money sat up, listening closely. The other girls had fallen asleep. Finally. Slowly, cautiously, Lunch Money climbed out of bed. Then, trying to make as little noise as possible, she grabbed her shoes and coat. Glancing out the window, Lunch Money smirked to herself. The damn snow was falling again. She averted her eyes from the sight quickly, as a deep pain shot through her.

Feivel muttered something in her sleep. Lunch Money jumped at the noise. She had to hurry if she didn't want to get caught. And she must have hurried, for by the time the newsgirls got up the next morning, Lunch Money was gone.


	19. Ava Higgins

_Author's Note: So I guess you all noticed I've been updating an awful lot lately. It's Christmas break, and I've no homework. Plus I'm stuck with lots of old relatives that don't expect me to make conversation with them, so the internet is my sanctuary. I seem to be experiancing a mode that's the opposite of writer's block. Let me tell you, it's quite a relief not to be crippled by writer's block when I've gotten to this point in the story... I've completely forgotten my original intent of writing this Author's Note. Oh well. Thanks for the reviews, peeps, I love hearing feedback! Enjoy. --Schroe Dawson _

* * *

The drama of the scene in the boy's dorm the previous night and the rumors of the relationship between Spot and Lunch Money that were quickly circulated among the newsboys was the only topic of discussion the next morning at Liam's. That, combined with the news of Lunch Money's sudden disappearance added up to a scandal unprecedented to anything that ever happened in Brooklyn. None of the newsgirls were very concerned at first when they discovered Lunch Money to be missing from her bunk. They figured she went out early for breakfast, or maybe that she'd gone after Spot and the others to help rescue the Manhattan boys from the refuge. 

Nix and Starboard were worried, and spent much of the morning inquiring if any of the newsboys had seen Lunch Money since the previous night. No one had. Ritz was quietly pleased that Lunch Money had vanished, but she still spent the morning sulking after hearing about what went on in the boy's dorm, to no one's surprise. Tease and Rodeo both felt slightly insulted on behalf of their friend Ritz when they heard that Spot had professed his love for Lunch Money. Feivel was indifferent to the gossip, only appreciating that everyone was too worked up over the hearsay to pay much attention to how much food she snitched off their plates.

Midway through breakfast Spot and Kid Blink staggered into Liam's, gasping for breath. They were bleeding, dirty and empty handed. They'd lost their rope, slingshots, and apparently, half their company.

"What happened?" Was the general response to their entrance. Spot and Blink panted and swallowed, struggling to get out words.

"We—we couldn't get Jack and the othehs out." Spot said breathlessly, "We couldn't get 'em outta the refuge. The place is swarming with guards. We got _that_ close to the window, and they started shootin'. They caught Boots an' Mush. They didn't get hurt, but they'se was arrested." Spot stated the events in his typical matter-of-fact manner, very detached from the situation. It was obviously killing Blink, what had happened last night. He stood silently next to Spot, looking quite miserable. He was eager to see Lunch Money so they could commiserate the absence of their friends. He and Lunch Money was the only Manhattan newsies to evade capture, thus far.

The newsies mournfully went back to their breakfasts. Holding quiet conversations about the losing war they were fighting. The newsies were being picked off individually, and with the Manhattan newsies out of the picture (save for Kid Blink and Lunch Money), it was only a matter of time before the bulls wised up and went after the leader of Brooklyn, and then his followers.

Spot and Kid Blink would have been glad to get their own breakfasts after such a long, perilous night, but they were approached by a very urgent-looking Nix. Her face was tense and anxious, and she pulled Blink and Spot off to one side and said in an urgent whisper:

"Have ya seen Lunch Money?"

"Not since last night." Blink replied slowly, "Why?"

"She's gone."

"_What?_" Blink bleated a little too loudly.

"Whadadya mean she's gone? Gone wheah?" Spot asked nervously, exchanging a look with Blink.

"We don't know!" Nix hissed, "No one's seen her since last night."

Blink glared at Spot, "Ya heah that? It's all your fault, Conlon." He snapped, momentarily forgetting that one should never speak so impudently to Spot Conlon. Fortunately for Blink, Spot was too distracted to notice Blink's lack of respect.

"I know; I know it's my fault!" Spot said, frustrated, "Ya think I couldn't figger that out? Look," He said quietly to Nix, "We gotta find her. What if sumptin's happened ta her? She's pretty well proved she can't take care of herself on the streets—"

"Or anywhere else." Blink interjected.

"Racetrack would neveh forgive me if she got hurt." Spot finished.

"Ya mean ya'd neveh forgive yahself." Nix said shrewdly.

"Well, that too." Spot gave Nix a reproving look, "Just get Roundhouse and Feivel and find out what happened ta her."

Nix nodded and disappeared. It wasn't just a whim that caused Spot to ask for Feivel and Roundhouse to assist Nix in her search. Those three alone formed Brooklyn's mysterious and notorious network of spies. They somehow managed to be everywhere, hear everything. Spot always assigned tasks of espionage and reconnaissance to those 'little boirdies.' Roundhouse and Feivel were small enough to fit into some unlikely places, and were cute enough (and agile enough) to get away with anything on the off chance they were caught eavesdropping. Nix was the brains behind the operation. She was the detective of the trio, deciphering whatever information Feivel or Roundhouse discovered and identifying the motives of whomever they were spying on. So really, it was no surprise that Nix was the first to guess Spot's feelings for Lunch Money; one might say it was in her job description.

So the three agents left Liam's, disappearing into the snowy city. Blink and Spot watched them go, both anxious. They knew they couldn't stand at the window all day; it would be a while before Lunch Money would walk down that street again anway. And the newsies had work to do. Spot took in a deep breath. He would have to face the other newsies now. After what had happened last night, he was not looking forward to that. But he was done pretending nothing had happened, even if Lunch Money hadn't yet.

* * *

"Get up! Get up, goilies! Theah's woirk ta be done!" 

Ava Higgins opened her eyes. Around her, the other girls promptly rolled out of bed, and began changing into their work clothes and brushing their hair. Ava sat up, rubbing her eyes blearily. These mornings were nothing like the chaos of the Manhattan lodging house, or even the quieter atmosphere of the Brooklyn lodging house. There were only three other girls in the small room, and none of them would ever be caught hocking papes on the street. They were actual, proper young ladies, despite their working class station, and they were rather scandalized upon first meeting Ava, with her boy's trousers and colorful vocabulary. They covered their mouths with their hands and their eyes went wide if someone muttered so much as "Geez!" in their presence, let alone words like "Dammit" or "Bitch".

Ava was one of them now though. She rose from her bed, quickly dressing in a deep green skirt, cream-colored blouse and worn apron, all garments borrowed from the other girls. Ava joined the rest of the girls in the washroom, combing out her hair and washing her face. As she scrubbed in the sink, Ava studied her face in the tiny smudged mirror.

The girl reflected back at her was barely recognizable as Lunch Money Higgins, the tough tomboy of the Manhattan newsies. In her place was a girl like any other young lady in New York. The girl her brother always told her she should be. The girl she might have been all along. Ava knew if she had listened to her brother earlier, and never become a newsie, none of this would have happened. She never would have even heard of Spot Conlon.

It didn't matter now though. This was her new life. It was as simple as that: she had gotten scared, so she ran. It was better for everyone if she just left newsies alone. She had to stop playing on the streets and grow up. "Lunch Money" was just a nickname that Ava Higgins once had.

Ava and the other girls finished up their morning routine and headed downstairs to the laundry on the first floor. It was Ava's third day working as a laundress, and Mrs. Withers (the old bat who ran the joint) was growing rather impatient with her incompetence; it seemed unbelievable that a girl of Ava's age had never done laundry before. Still, Ava spent the day working hard and trying to get the hang of the business.

"So, Ava, is it?" A stout, friendly looking girl asked cheerfully, as the laundry girls wrung the clothes and ironed them out flat. Ava nodded.

"Yeah, Ava Higgins."

"I'm Molly." The girl told her, "Where'd ya come from?"

"Uh, New Yawk." Ava thought that was obvious.

"No, I mean what kinda woirk didja do befoah this?" Molly giggled. Ava frowned, looking down at the damp shirt in her hands.

"I woirked as newsie." She muttered, not really wanting to talk about anything connected to her old life. The naïve girls looked awed and interested in Ava's past exciting life on the streets.

"Ooh, what was that like?" Another girl asked.

"Wasn't dreadful?" Asked yet another, sounding disgusted, "It's such dirty woirk on the streets all day, and theah's hardly any newsgoils out theah any more. Only grimy street rat boys who'll take advantage of a goil as soon as look at her."

Ava shrugged, "It was al'ight. I had friends that looked out fa' me." She smiled faintly, remembering the one night someone had tried to take advantage of her, and Spot had come to her rescue. Part of her longed to go back to that night, while the other half of her wished it had never happened. She missed him, she ached to see him again, but she refused to admit it to herself. Miss Higgins had been a stubborn girl when she went by Lunch Money, and she intended to be just as stubborn going by Ava. Spot Conlon was just a boy she once knew. That was all. She was still caught up in the make-believe that nothing had ever happened.

* * *

"Spot!" 

Nix at last found the leader of Brooklyn. She had sprinted from Manhattan, running through every back street and alley, looking for Spot. She was out of breath, but pleased to finally have a report for Spot after so many days of scouring New York City. Spot turned at the sound of his name, and looked hopeful as Nix ran to catch up with him.

"I found her."


	20. Weakness

"She's _wheah?_" Blink couldn't believe he'd heard correctly. Spot nodded grimly.

"A laundry in Manhattan." He told Blink again.

It was the very last place anyone expected to look. Fortunately, Nix had enough wiles to figure out that Lunch Money would be hiding in the one place no one would suspect. Blink was still having difficulty grasping exactly what the words coming out of Spot's mouth meant. He must have misspoken. Lunch Money would never give up being a newsie. Least of all to become a laundress! Her disgust of the position couldn't have been clearer, all the times Racetrack had hinted around at Lunch Money choosing a more suitable career for a girl. What would Racetrack do when he found out? He knew as well as Blink that something had to be dreadfully wrong for Lunch Money to take such drastic measures.

"Are ya goin' aftah her, Spot?" Roundhouse asked earnestly. It was lunchtime, and word had quickly spread of Lunch Money's whereabouts, and all were curious to how Spot would react.

"Of course he's goin' aftah her," One of the older boys spoke up before Spot could answer. His voice was mocking. "He _in_ _love_ wit' her."

Several of the other newsboys smirked broadly at each other. Spot gave them a sharp look, but only a few smiles disappeared. Most of the boys found it greatly amusing that Spot had fallen in love Lunch Money, and (as Spot had foreseen) this new series of events shed a new light on their leader. Spot no longer seemed so different from the rest of them; true, he still retained his intimidating and commanding presence, but now the other boys knew he wasn't the cold, heartless boy they had always feared. Spot sensed the subtle change, and while he wasn't at all happy with the shift, he felt a strange satisfaction at everything being out in the open. Is that all he'd been afraid of? The reaction of the Brooklyn newsies? All he had been so concerned about, was this all?

"Yeah, I'm goin' aftah her." Spot said shortly to Roundhouse. One of the newsboys whispered something to one of his chums and they snickered. Spot had had enough of this conversation. His time would be much better spent elsewhere. And so he set out. His destination: Manhattan.

* * *

It had been a slow day at the laundry, and it was late afternoon before the bell at the front counter rang. Most of the girls (Ava included) didn't even to bother to look up from their washing, let alone leave the workroom to meet the customer at the front of the shop. So Molly took it upon herself to greet the client, setting her iron down and hurrying to the counter.

"May I help ya, sir?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm lookin' fa' Lunch Money Higgins." Ava turned around at the sound of her old name. In the gap between Molly and the doorframe, Ava could just see the visiter. The bottom of her stomach gave a lurch. There stood Spot, cap in his hands, looking apprehensive. He had found her. Ava wanted to disappear.

"I don't know any Lunch Money," Molly giggled, "But a Miss Ava Higgins woirks heah."

"Yeah, that's her."

Molly opened her mouth to call Ava out of the back room, but Ava had already abandoned her laundry and marched around the counter. She seized Spot by the arm, pulling him towards the door.

"What are ya doin' heah?" She demanded angrily.

"I wanted ta talk ta--" He trailed off, looking Ava up and down, "Lunch, whaddaya wearin'?" He had never seen Lunch Money wear anything besides trousers and caddy hats, like the newsboys, so it was a little unsettling to see the unexpected reversal. Ava blushed, suddenly self-conscious.

"I gotta grow up sometime." She said coldly. Spot gave her a probing stare.

"Al'ight then." He cleared his throat and replaced his hat to it's usal position on his head, "Listen, I just wanted ta talk ta ya."

"Well I don't wanna talk ta you." She said shortly, turning away. She walked deliberately back to the workroom, leaving Spot in the lobby. He stood there for a moment, then sighed and followed her.

"I ain't leavin' 'til ya talk ta me." Ava ignored him, returned to folding the pile of shirts on her workbench. She finished folding the first shirt, smoothing it over to rid it of wrinkles. Her hands shook slightly as she worked. Spot noticed and moved his right hand on top of Ava's left, stroking the side of her thumb innocently, "Why'd ya leave?"

Ava jerked her hand away, taking a couple of steps backward and crossing her arms protectively across her chest. Had she not just said that she didn't want to talk to him? She should have known Spot would show up sooner or later. Ava knew she wasn't going to escape her old life that easily. She glanced at the clock hanging on the back wall, and then looked at Spot again.

"I get off woirk at five. Can ya wait an hour?"

"Yeah," Spot nodded, sighing, "Shoah. I'll see ya at five."

The next hour went by far too quickly for Ava's liking. Her stomach squirmed, glancing back the clock every few minutes. If it wasn't enough dreading talking to Spot after the laundry closed, she also had to put up with the other laundry girls fluttering and giggling after Spot had left.

"Ooh, who was _that?_"

"How d'ya know that boy, Ava?"

"He called ya 'Lunch Money'—what was that about?"

Ava paid them no attention and feigned deafness for the entire hour. She wasn't about to explain the whole story to those stupid girls.

For Spot, however, time didn't pass quickly enough. It was possibly the longest hour of his life. He paced Manhattan; he circled the block four times, giving dirty looks to the newsstands set up on the corners. After days of wondering what on Earth was going on with Lunch Money, the last hour was excruciating. The minutes literally crawled by.

Sooner or later, five o' clock did come. The laundry closed up, Ava and the other girls cleared away the messes in the workroom and Ava trudged into the lobby. Just outside the window, she could see Spot waiting impatiently. She shrugged on her coat. It was the one article of clothing she still retained from her newsie days. It was the same gray woolen coat as always, which was some comfort to her as she stepped outside to meet Spot.

"Wanna take a walk?" He offered nervously.

"Shoah." She said. She started walking down the street, swiftly leading the way. Spot jogged to catch up with her, and they soon fell into comfortable pace, maintaining a careful distance from each other.

"Whaddaya doin', Lunch Money?" Spot got right to the point, "What _is_ this? Woirkin' at a laundry?" Ava shrugged.

"What's it ta you?" She snapped sullenly, "What d'ya care?"

"Oh shut up!" Spot cut her off sharply. She knew perfectly well what his answer to her questions was. "Look, we can eitheh keep goin' around in coircles about this, or ya could actually talk ta me."

"Fine. What d'ya want?"

"I want ya ta explain what the hell you're doin'. Why ya left." He paused, then added, "And don't say 'everything', nothing is eveh 'everything'."

They had reached _The World_'s circlation office. Ava hadn't been there since that day so many weeks ago when she and all the Manhattan newsies first came across a newsstand. Back when all of this had started. Her eye found the newsstand she'd seen Weasel and the Delancy's manning that day. It occurred to her that that little wooden counter had been the cause of all of this.

"I just—" Ava stopped. She wasn't sure what words were supposed to come next. How would she begin to explain any of this? So she lied. "I just don't think fightin' Pulitzeh like this is gonna help no more. He's got us beat. It's hopeless; theah ain't enough a' us ta ovehpoweh the newsstands and delivery boys… and how many more a' us will end up in the refuge befoah this is oveh?"

They crossed the street, approaching the statue of Horace Greeley at the center of square. Spot leaned against the base of the statue, looking skeptical.

"The Lunch Money I know wouldn'ta' given up so easily."

"And I suppose that she was the goil ya fell in love wit'?" Ava replied scathingly. She almost regretted her words when she saw the hurt look in Spot's eye. Almost.

"Well… yeah." Spot shrugged.

"Well, she ain't heah, so you'se can leave." Ava told him harshly, turning to face the opposite direction.

"_What's a' matteh wit' ya, goil?_" Spot asked furiously, "Gawd, Lunch, ya such a liar. Will ya just come back? Racetrack'll kill me if he finds out ya up and left wit'out tellin' anyone."

"'Cos I always _need someone ta look aftah me_, right?"

"Exactly." Spot answered sardonically. "Now come on."

"I ain't goin' back ta Brooklyn." Ava proclaimed obstinately.

"Why not?" Spot was quickly losing patience. This was getting ridiculous, and he was tired of arguing with her.

"Because I'm too afraid!" She burst out, glaring at Spot, "Dammit, Spot, that's why I left in the foirst place. Ya wanted the truth, heah it is: I was afraid. Now will ya leave me alone?" Ava let out a long shuddering breath. Spot didn't respond, he just watched her waiting for her to elaborate. Ava leaned her back against the pedestal of the statue as Spot had minutes ago. She slid down the short wall, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her shins, preferring to talk to her kneecaps than to Spot.

"I was afraid a' you." She admitted, still not looking at him, "A' how I felt about ya. I was afraid," she added, with difficulty, "a' what Racetrack said about you."

"What did he say about me?" Spot asked, looking serious. Ava looked up at him, defiantly.

"He said," She was impressed with her own ability to keep her voice steady, though it was hard work to keep it from shaking, "That ta you I was just a challenge. That the only interest ya had in me was ta get me inta bed." Ava maintained eye contact with Spot, watching his grim expression dissolve into that of shock. She, on the other hand, kept the same cold, indifferent stare.

"Lunch, ya didn't believe him, didja?" Spot asked earnestly, kneeling down on the ground next to her.

"Could ya blame me?" She asked frostily. Spot couldn't think of a good answer to that. He _couldn't_ blame her for believing Racetrack on that account. It seemed like something Spot would do, just trying to get some action with Lunch Money—maybe as a bet with some of the boys or something. It _did_ sound like Spot. But it wasn't true, couldn't she see that?

"Can I go now?" Ava asked casually, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"No." Spot said, "C'mon Lunch, ya don't think I wasn't scared at foirst too? I was terrified." He confessed to her, his eyes begging her to stay, "I 'se neveh been so afraid in me entire life as I was when I met ya. But it ain't woirth it. It ain't woirth pretendin' nuttin' happened, believe me. I love you." The last sentence was spoken softly, sending chills up Ava's spine.

Ava was quiet. She merely gazed at Spot with eyes sadder than he had ever seen them. He could think of nothing else to say, so he leaned in and kissed her. Ava knew it was going against her better judgment, but she didn't want him to stop. He didn't stop. Spot drew her closer so that they were comfortably curled together at the base of Horace Greeley's statue, in the darkness of square. Ava shivered as his right hand just grazed her inner thigh, while the other felt the curve of her waist. The smallest of sighs escaped Ava, lost in the sheer erotica of the moment, the feeling of Spot kissing her. A kiss she was happy to intensify-- until: _Ava have ya lost ya mind? Ain't this exactly what ya told yahself ya weren't gonna do? Let Spot charm ya so easily again?_ A voice reawakened in her head, and she listened to it.

"No, Spot!" She cried at last, pushing him away. Ava leapt to her feet, angry with herself. She was visibly trembling, and literally weak at the knee. "Ya can't—ya can't just kiss me and think everything'll change!" She said in a broken voice, "Ya can't fix everything; ya can't make it betteh just like that! I already told ya, I can't do this. I won't do this! It shows weakness, Spot, and you know it. I ain't givin' in it ta it."

Spot got to his feet as well, his arms folded. Ava had been right: the girl he'd fallen in love with wasn't there tonight. Lunch Money was somewhere under Ava Higgins, a girl Spot was not liking at all right at the moment.

"Ya know what else shows weakness? Runnin' away from ya feahs." Even in the middle of this shattering conversation, Spot managed his usual smirk, "It was all an act, huh? Tough Lunch Money Higgins. She said she wasn't afraid a' nuttin'. She went around pickin' fights with anyone, just ta prove how fearless she was. But when the littlest thing frightens her, she just runs."

Ava whipped around, glaring at him wrathfully, "Oh, ya wanna talk about pretendin' ta be sumptin' ya aint d'ya, O cold, heartless king a' Brooklyn?"

Spot's expression intensified to match Ava's glare. Ava briefly thought of Boots. _"If ya evah go ta Brooklyn, Lunch, don't show Spot Conlon that look—it'd kill him if he knew some goil had an expression as fierce as his."_ Boots had been wrong, of course. When Lunch Money Higgins went to Brooklyn, it wasn't her expression that was killing Spot. It was just her. Not being able to have her. But that would never be solved. Spot was just going to have to deal and go on without her. And Ava, Ava would have to somehow forget the boy she once met. Forget the girl she once was.

"Lunch," Spot began again, not entirely sure of what to say. He was saved the trouble figuring that out when Ava cut him off.

"Spot, please go." She said in a quiet, pleading voice. She had turned her face away from Spot. She didn't want him to see the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes. "Just go." She whispered.

Spot did nothing for a few seconds. Then, without a second word or glance, he walked slowly out of the square, disappearing into the misty winter evening.

For the first time in a long time, Ava cried. Alone and afraid in the middle of the square, the girl stood, tears streaming down her face. They salty tears came slowly at first, but quickly fell thick and fast amid her bitter sobs. Even as she cried, she knew the one person she would ever need was walking away, and she didn't have the courage to follow. And for that weakness, she could only blame herself.


	21. Unexpected Visitors

That should have been the low point. Most of the Manhattan newsies were being held in the refuge. The newsstands were thriving, and the business the delivery service was getting had even surpassed the newsstands. And then adding in the complications of the relationship between Spot and Ava, Spot had never felt so wretched in his entire life, and doubted that anything could make him feel worse than he felt at that particular point in time. He was wrong, of course. The newsies still had a ways to fall before hitting rock bottom.

He returned to the lodging house after dinner, looking dejected and forlorn. The Brooklyn newsies knew better than to approach their leader, but Kid Blink was too anxious for news of Lunch Money to notice Spot's dark mood.

"Spot! Is Lunch okay? Did she come back al'ight?" he asked as soon as Spot entered the dormitory.

"She's fine." Spot snapped angrily, "But she ain't comin' back." He walked deliberately to his bunk, and began preparing for bed. Nothing in the world sounded so good as falling into a deep dreamless sleep.

"Whaddya mean she ain't comin' back?" Blink asked, jumping off his own bunk, "She's comin' back ain't she?"

Spot gave Kid Blink a disgusted look, and Blink's usual smile faded. "No, she ain't comin' back, didn't ya heah a woird I said? She says she's done bein' a newsie."

"That don't make no sense." Blink insisted, "How could she just leave like that?"

"I don't know, Blink!" Spot answered, not wholly truthful, "I don't know, she's just—" He broke off, listening for something. Whatever he was trying to hear was too quiet to be heard over the din of the boy's dormitory (at this time of night, the place was a regular madhouse.), for Spot yelled to the dormitory at large:

"Quiet! Shuddup a minute, fellas!"

Silence fell immediately. Spot strode across the room, opening the door and venturing out into the hallway. He heard low voices in the downstairs lobby. He eavesdropped with bated breath.

"Excuse us sir, we are looking for a boy named Andrew Conlon, and his cohorts."

"I don't think I know who you'se is talkin' about." The voice of Mr. Sweeney, the old manager of the lodging house echoed up the stairs. Spot felt a surge of gratitude toward Sweeney for not ratting them out.

"I think you do." Another voice said menacingly, "We're looking for Andrew Conlon—also known as 'Spot' Conlon—and all the little brats that help him deface the city's property and injure it's employees. We know these 'newsies' live here, and it would be in your best interest not to hinder our search for these criminals."

Spot had heard enough. Pulitzer had finally gotten the authorities to exterminate the newsies, once and for all. They had been caught; the boys were going away to the refuge that night, and there was nothing Mr. Sweeney could do about it, no matter how long he stalled the officers. Spot dashed back into the dorm, shutting the door behind him. All eyes were on him, waiting for orders.

"The bulls is heah." He announced, drawing his cane out dramatically, "Everybody betteh get outta heah if ya don't wanna go ta the refuge." The boys all looked at each other, frightened, but very still.

"Go!" Spot added when none of them moved. The response was immediate. The room was absolute pandemonium; a team of boys started tying bed sheets together (the oldest trick in the book) to climb out the window. Others wasted precious time gathering coats and hats. None of it was enough though. Police had been stationed around all exits of the lodging house, and still more charged up the stairs and spilled into the boy's dormitory, brandishing clubs and cornering as many newsboys as they could manage.

It was a scene that reminded Spot forcibly of the incident in Irving Hall, more than a year ago. Once again, the bulls bore down on the young boys, who fumbled for their slingshots and tried to fight back against the full-grown men. Spot ducked under the arm of one of the policemen, darting toward the briefly unguarded door. He made it to the corridor and started down the stairs, but someone held him back. Someone he had hoped never to see again.

"Well, well, Andrew Conlon." Snyder sneered, tightening his grip around Spot's arm, "Looks like it's back to the refuge for you, young man."

Spot couldn't believe it. Snyder, working for the city again? How he had managed to get a job with the refuge again after being arrested for taking kickbacks and mistreating the children in the orphan "rehabilitation center"?

Spot wrenched his arm out of Snyder's grasp, and with his other hand, he cracked his cane around Snyder's shins with as much force as he could muster. He tried to run, but yet another city official blocked his path. The cop wrested both the cane and the slingshot away from Spot, and managed to pin Spot's arm behind his back. He struggled against the hold, breaking away and flying down the stairs.

No less than four policemen met him at the landing. They were all bearing clubs and leering unpleasantly. Spot threw one elbow into the nearest man's stomach. He doubled over, and Spot took the opportunity to snatch the club away and distribute a sharp smack to a second cop. The third came up behind Spot, catching him around the throat, causing the poor boy to choke. The room started spinning, and with a final blow to the head from one of the officers, Spot blacked out.

The rest of the newsies faired no better. Everyone from Kid Blink (who was dragged off, still fighting, by two officers) to little Roundhouse (who, like Spot, had to be knocked out cold before anyone could contain him) was soon captured and in less than thirty minutes, the entire lodging house had been emptied, all of its former inhabitants carted off to prison. Or rather, _almost_ all its inhabitants.

* * *

_Chink. Chink. **Crack.**_

Ava jerked awake. She squinted across the room at the window, which sported a cluster of new cracks in the glass pane. Several other girls sat up, wondering who would be callous enough to break their window. A fourth rock bounced off the glass, making the glass shudder ominously. Ava whipped her sheets aside and climbed out of bed, planning to give the hooligans out there what for. She slid the window open, and leaned out into the chilled night air.

"If any a' yas sons a' bitches throws one more rock, I swear ta Gawd I—" Ava stopped short. She had not expected to look down into the slushy streets to find this particular group of people.

"Heya, Lunch Money!" Feivel squeaked up, perfectly cheery. Ava's eyes widened. All six of the Brooklyn newsgirls were standing on the road below her. Feivel had a handful of rocks in her fist, and Nix carried a length of rope with her. The most curious possession among them, however, was the bundle in Tease's arms; she was carrying what looked like boy's clothing.

"Whaddya doin' heah?" Ava demanded, ignoring the laundry girls stirring behind her. They were sitting up and muttering to each, sounding very annoyed by this midnight conference.

"We need ya help." Nix called up, "The boys is in the refuge."

"All'a 'em?" Ava asked, trying to act as though her stomach hadn't just tied itself into a knot. She didn't like to think of any of her friends at the mercy of the law. It had been bad enough when only three of her friends were trapped in that awful place. Nix and Feivel exchanged a dark look at Ava's words.

"No." Nix said in a low voice, "Not all'a 'em. All the boys got arrested, but only fifteen are still in the refuge."

"What happened to the othehs? Did they escape?" Ava couldn't help but wonder. Maybe her friends had escaped! Maybe Spot had escaped.

"No. The othehs made a deal wit' Snydeh." Nix growled, disgusted, "He told the boys that if they testified against Jack an' Spot in court, he'd let them out wit' no charges against 'em."

"No!" Ava gasped, "And only fifteen boys refused the offeh?"

"Well, thirteen really." Nix corrected, "Theah's fifteen a' our boys in the refuge _including_ Spot an' Jack."

"And whaddya'bout you? How did you'se guys escape the refuge?"

"We'se was neveh in the refuge," Nix explained, "Ritz, Tease and Rodeo was out, uh, _woirkin'_. And Feiv can fit into some surprisingly small hidin' places. Then me an' Starboard just pretended ta be maids woirkin' at the lodgin' house, insteada' newsgoils."

Ava was still reeling from the news. Spot and Jack and just a handful of boys, stuck in the refuge? And the rest of the boys all traitors? Ava would never have thought that a newsboy would have so little pride as to make a devil's bargain with Snyder. And since when was Snyder out of prison? _Why should you care, Ava?_ She asked herself, _You ain't a newsie. None a' this concoirns you._

"So, whaddya doin' heah?"

"Whaddya think?" Feivel looked exasperated, "We'se bustin' 'em out, and we need ya help." Ava wasn't sure how to respond. Of course she had to help her friends. She would never forgive herself if she left them in the refuge to rot. But she had promised herself not to get herself involved with any of the newsies problems. And Ava was too stubborn to abandon that promise so quickly.

"No." Ava started to close the window.

"Wait, Lunch Money!" It wasn't the words that made Ava pause. It was the voice that had spoken them. "Wait." Ritz repeated, looking up imploringly at Ava, "Don'tcha care what happens ta any a' them? Don'tcha care what happens ta Spot?"

"No." Ava lied shortly. She didn't want anything to do with the newsies anymore. What did she have to do to make that clear to everyone?

"What about Racetrack? Ya brudder's still in theah. Won'tcha do it fa' ya brudder?"

Ava took a deep breath. She knew Ritz was right. There was something Ava never thought would happen. If nothing else, if for no one else, she had to help her brother. Racetrack was too important to Ava. He had always been there to protect her, even if Ava didn't necessarily want his protection. For once, she felt obligated to return the favor.

"Fine. I'll do it fa' Race. But I ain't doin' fa' you, and I coirtainly ain't doin' it fa' Spot." Ava agreed, pretending to be much more reluctant than she really was.

"Well come on, then!" Nix said, looking relieved, she uncoiled the rope in her hands and tossed the end of it to Ava who tied it around the nearest bed post and put one leg outside the window, trying to get her footing on the icy surface.

"Oh, hang on!" She disappeared back through the window, much to the confusion of the newsgirls. Ava darted across the dark room, the laundry girls all protesting Ava's departure. She was sure to be caught sneaking out, or so they thought.

She hastily changed out of her nightgown, into her borrowed skirt and blouse (regrettably the only clothing she had now, having disposed of her old things). Then, to everyone's surprise, Ava threw herself onto the floor next to her bed, feeling around underneath it. She drew out what she had been looking for. Her old tan caddy hat. She returned to the window and climbed out, dangling dangerously above the street as she carefully worked her way back down to the street where the other newsgirls waited for her. She jumped the last few feet, landing with a catlike grace on the pavement. Ava looked around at her fellow newgirls.

"So, ya gotta plan?" She asked, replacing her caddy hat on top of her head, very glad to be Lunch Money Higgins once again.


	22. Explanations

"Spot. Spot! Wake up!" Spot became vaguely aware of the voices above him. He stirred, regaining consciousness. His head was throbbing. What had happened? Someone was slapping his face.

"What the hell?" he muttered, not opening his eyes.

"Conlon! Wake up, what happened?" Spot reluctantly pried his eyelids apart. Jack and Racetrack stood over him, looking concerned. Hovering nearby was Boots, Crutchy and Mush, also worried. Spot sat up, his head still spinning. He thought he was going to vomit. He was in the refuge. In the dorm room, apparently: the boys were all wearing the bland nightshirts issued by the state employees. Spot himself was still fully clothed. He had no idea what time it was. Very late, was his guess. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Spot tried to organize his thoughts. The bulls had hunted them down in the lodging house… Snyder had been there too…

"What does it look like happened?" Spot asked, annoyed, "The bulls busted into the lodging house and arrested all'a us."

"_All _a' ya?" Racetrack looked confused, "Then wheah's everybody else?"

Spot looked around. Where were the others? He didn't see Blink, or Roundhouse, or any of the newsgirls. What did Snyder do to them?

"I don't know." Spot said slowly, rubbing his head, "But I know they'se was arrested. The place was swarming with coppehs. An' Snydeh was theah too." He added significantly. The Manhattan newsies exchanged knowing looks.

"Yeah." Jack nodded, "The old bastard's gots some friends in high places. He got outta jail six months ago, and Pulitzeh pulled some strings and arranged some fake ids so Snydeh could get his job back." Jack explained, "It was all a plot, see? Joe's been plannin' his revenge since we beat him out a' that lousy tenth of a cent. He knew Snydeh was the only warden ruthless enough ta take care a' us street rats the way Pulitzeh wants us taken care a'. We'se been a thorn in their sides fa' too long. It's all undeh the table, a'course. Roosevelt don't know nuttin' a' what's goin' on."

Spot tried to process all of that information. So Joe Pulitzer was behind Snyder's sudden good fortune. It all made sense: Pulitzer wanted the newsies taken of, and Snyder was just the man to get the job done. So naturally Pulitzer bribed the mayor, got Snyder his job as warden back, and now Snyder was delighting in picking off the newsies as quickly as possible.

Spot reverie was cut short, however, by the arrival of some familiar faces. Snyder opened the door, ushering in a handful of boys. Blink was among them, as was Roundhouse. With them were seven more boys, all of whom Spot recognized as Brooklyn newsies: Mezzo, Jigger, Double Time, Muckety, Sweeps, and Wishbone. They all looked distinctly miserable, though they brightened ever so slightly when they saw the other newsies. Kid Blink gave his friends a wide smile, pleased to see them all again.

"Hey, ya bummehs! Long time, no see." Blink tossed an arm carelessly over Mush's shoulders. Mush shoved him in the face, smirking. "Ah, c'mon, ya don't think I got enough bruises al'eady?"

"Blink! What happened, wheah are the otheths?" The other newsies were impatient with Kid Blink's casual greeting. They wanted news. Blink's grin vanished. He didn't say anything. Did they really have to discuss this now? Blink would have preferred getting few minutes to hang with his chums again, before worrying about the grave situation they now faced. It was the boy named Double Time who finally answered. Double Time was a burly young man, one of the older newsies, and was thuggishly intimidating. His rather volatile temper didn't much help this image.

"The fuckin' rats sold us out!" He told Spot, fuming, "Snyder let 'em go. He told all'a us that he would drop all changes against us if we wrote some statement ta use against you and Cowboy in court."

"_What?_" Spot demanded, his eyes flashing. He sprang from the bunk, ignoring his pounding head. "They'se betrayed us? I'll kill 'em." He said with conviction. No one doubted his sincerity. "I'll kill 'em. All'a them betrayed us?"

"Blink." Racetrack asked urgently, cutting across Spot. Racetrack knew if anyone gave him the opportunity, Spot would rant for days about this. And he had to know: "Blink, wheah's Lunch Money?"

* * *

"So, what wit' the boy's clothes?" Lunch Money inquired about the bundle in Tease's arms, raising an eyebrow hopefully. It was late, and the girls had chosen to spend the rest of the night under the cover of the red striped awning over Liam's. It was nice to be back in Brooklyn, though Lunch Money was still wary of what she was getting herself into. "Maybe a gift fa' me? I could shoah use a pair a' trousehs; I don't understand how ya weah these damn skoirts all the time, it's murdeh, I tell ya—" 

"It ain't fa' you." Nix answered, "They'd be too big fa' ya anyway. Tease gets ta be the boy this time."

"I'm intrigued. Whaddya plannin'?" Lunch Money grinned. It had been a while since she'd last been involved in a great scheme such as springing kids from the refuge, and Lunch Money liked the sound of Nix's plan, "Gimme details."

Nix laid out the particulars to the other girls, who listened eagerly. It was a simple plan. Feivel and Tease got the first task, and as Nix explained further, the bundle of boys clothing became clear. Feivel was to make the first move; she and Tease would be stationed just outside the refuge, within earshot of the numerous guards. Feivel would draw their attention by screaming bloody murder. Assuming the guards weren't absolutely heartless, they would come to Feivel's aid, and rescue her from the 'boy' trying to assault her. Tease (of the Brooklyn newsgirls, she was easily the quickest on her feet) would then hightail out of there, pulling the guards away for as long as possible. That's when the other girls came into play.

As Lunch Money listened to Nix's scheme, she realized that she felt more like herself than she had in a long time. She was back to being Lunch Money, not Ava, and not the desperately confused and distraught version of Lunch Money she had been since coming to Brooklyn. This threw Lunch Money; it was most unexpected. She hadn't felt so normal since... since when, exactly? Lunch Money thought for a bit before realizing that she could pinpoint the moment when she'd started feeling like someone very different from herself.

_"Hey!" someone shouted from the end of the alley, "You punks bettah clear out now, or you'll be answerin' ta Spot Conlon."_

That was when Lunch Money had first felt like everything was spinning out of control. But now? Now she was still scared, still uncertain, but suddenly she was herself again. Was it possible that Lunch Money could be who she was, even in the face of all the turmoil? Could she be both a tomboy and a girl in love? It was the first time that thought had crossed her mind, and she found it very interesting that it had never occurred to her before. She barely heard another word Nix said; the rest of the night she was preoccupied with what could have been, or (if she had the strength) what would be.

* * *

"Blink, wheah is she?" Racetrack asked again. Kid Blink shuffled his feet, and glanced quickly at Spot. 

"She's fine." Blink said, trying to tell the truth without having to tell Racetrack what had really happened.

"I don't like the sound a' that."

"She is!" Blink insisted, "She ain't been arrested or nuttin'."

"But wheah is she?" Racetrack looked between Spot and Blink. They knew what had happened to his sister, and they didn't want to inform him as to her whereabouts. This did not lessen Racetrack's curiosity or concern.

"She's in Manhattan." Spot answered, hoping that would be enough of an answer for Racetrack. It wasn't, of course.

"What? What's she doin' theah?" Racetrack was confused. Why would Lunch Money just up and leave for Manhattan? "Was she tryin' ta recruit the otheh boys? Dutchy, an' Bumlets, an' Tumbler an' Specs an' everybody?"

"Nah, nuttin' like that." It was Blink who responded this time. He took in a deep breath, bracing himself for Racetrack's reaction. "She says she's done bein' a newsie. She's woirkin' at a laundry."

All the Manhattan newsboys stood aghast. None of them could believe it – none of them wanted to believe it. Mush looked like someone had hit him across the face. Boots and Crutchy glanced at each other; their mouths open in shock. Lunch Money? A laundress? It had to have been two or three times a week that they heard Racetrack suggest that career to Lunch Money, and it was two or three times a week they heard Lunch Money scornfully shoot him down.

"You." Racetrack seized Spot by the arm and marched him away from the group, "I need ta talk ta you."

Racetrack led Spot as far away from the other boys as possible, stopping near the barred window on the opposite end of the dorm. Spot shrugged Racetrack's hand off irritably. The newsboys watched Spot and Racetrack, all interested in hearing what was sure to be an intense conversation. But, alas, both boys spoke in whispers too soft for them to hear.

"What?" Spot asked defiantly. He knew 'what', of course, Racetrack was going to blame him for letting Lunch Money roam New York unattended. He was going to accuse Spot of being the reason Lunch Money left the newsies. He wouldn't be wrong either.

"What d'ya do?" Racetrack demanded quietly, "What d'ya do ta me little sisteh? Listen, I know Lunch Money, and she ain't no laundress. She loves bein' a newsie, and I can only think a' one reason that might make her give it up, and that's you, Conlon."

"Al'ight, it _was_ me." Spot snapped, "But nuttin' happened, I swear it, Race."

"Ya told her you love her."

"Ya hoird about that, huh? Yeah, so what if I did?" Spot almost regretted his flippant tone when he saw the expression on Racetrack's face. He really looked like he wanted to kill Spot.

"I don't like ya leadin' Lunch Money on like that. I know how ya woirk, Conlon." Racetrack sneered, "Ya go breakin' goil's hearts right and left, an' theah I was, tryin' ta make shoah that me little sisteh wouldn't be the next. Ya did her an' dumped, her, didn't ya?" He shook his head, angry with himself for putting a stop to everything when he had the chance. Now his sister had run away to Manhattan, just to escape Conlon.

"No!" Spot was adamant. That wasn't what had happened at all. "Anway, what makes ya so shoah I didn't mean what I said?" Spot glared at Racetrack. Racetrack looked confused. _What is he talkin' about? He can't seriously mean…?_

"This ain't how ya think it is. I'm in love with her." Spot avoided Racetrack's incredulous stare. He wasn't sure which Higgins it had been more difficult to tell this to: Lunch Money, or Racetrack.

"Really?" Racetrack was still skeptical. Spot nodded. Racetrack was quiet, thinking for a minute before he spoke again. "Then what made her run off?"

Spot exhaled slowly. He'd been trying not to answer that question. "I think she's tryin' ta figger some things out. When I went ta talk ta her, she said… she said she was scared."

"I don't believe ya." Racetrack's sneer was more pronounced than ever, "I don't believe any a' that. Lunch ain't afraid a' anything. You took advantage a' her as soon as I wasn't theah ta look afteh her every wakin' moment. Don't even try ta pretend." Racetrack walked away, returning to the group of newsboys.

"Race!" Spot called after him.

"Go ta hell, Conlon." With those parting words, Racetrack returned to converse with the other Manhattan newsboys. He was probably convincing them that the reason Lunch Money had run off to Manhattan was because had raped her, or whatever horrible violation Racetrack was so Spot had committed.

Spot leaned against the window, one hand carefully rubbing the deep purple bruise that covered the patch of skin just over his left eye. Just when he thought he could start to make things right again by talking to Racetrack, just when he thought he could get someone on his side. It was hard to believe he could be in any deeper, but Spot had only made his situation much, much worse.


	23. Newsgirls to the Rescue

_Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I've been frankly dreading this chapter, and I procrastinated writing this chapter all week. It was hell to write. Lemme know if my struggle was in vain.

* * *

_

_A' course it's raining_, Lunch Money thought bitterly as she shivered, waiting for Feivel's signal. _That will make everything much easieh_. She stood with Nix, Ritz, Starboard and Rodeo, all of them waiting in the shadows across the road from the front gates of the refuge. From their position, they could see Feivel and Tease at the end of the alley next to the refuge, both girls preparing to run. Also in their line of sight were a number of thuggish guards, patrolling the perimeter of the building, just inside the high brick wall surrounding the place.

Feivel's voice shattered the air. It was a heart-stopping, strident noise that made Lunch Money jump. Her first shriek trailed off into nothing, and she had just enough time to take another breath before letting out a second. As Nix had predicted, the guards sprung into action by the start of her second scream. Six or eight guards ran forth, abandoning their posts in order to come to aid of the young screaming girl. The front gates opened, momentarily presenting the four newsgirls across the street with an opportunity.

"Go!"

They ran like the hounds of Hell were on their heels. Under the cover of darkness, the girls slipped through the gates, inside the walls of the refuge. As she ran between Nix and Rodeo, Lunch Money found herself listening closely to the activity outside the walls. From the sounds of it, both girls had managed to escape, for the time being, but the police were still in hot pursuit of Tease and Feivel.

"This is it! This is it, guys." Nix skidded to a stop, looking up at one of the windows. It was barred, and fairly high up— at least thirty feet off the ground. Nix slid the coil of rope off of her shoulder and began unwinding it. The end of the rope was weighted with a lead pipe, which they figured could double as weapon if they later found themselves in need. But for now, it was just an aid for their infiltration.

"Ya gonna hafta get it around that." Nix said, indicating a smokestack on the roof, just above the window. The chimney wasn't an impossible target, but it was indeed challenging. Lunch Money swung the rope, the way Jack had showed her one summer day when the news was slow, and aimed a toss. She missed. The pipe fell back to the ground with a resounding _clang_. The girls froze, listening for the sound of the bulls coming down on them. None came. Lunch Money took a deep breath and tried again. Three more times she missed after that. The girls flinched at every clang of the pipe tied at the end of the rope. Lunch Money could feel Nix getting anxious, repeatedly checking over her shoulder for Snyder or some other authority to catch them.

"You'se horrible at this." Nix hissed. Lunch Money ignored her. Did she _say_ she could swing a rope like Cowboy? Did she look like a girl with a Santa Fe fetish? On her fifth try, Lunch Money managed to swing end of the rope over the low chimney, and the pipe returned to the earth one last time, this time looping the rope around the smokestack. Great, now came the hard part.

Lunch Money sucked in a deep breath between her teeth, and approached the building. She clasped her hands around the rope and hoisted herself off the ground. Ritz, Rodeo and Nix grabbed the other end of the twine and held it tightly.

"If ya let me fall, it'll be me blood on ya hands." Lunch Money muttered as the three girls struggled to hold Lunch Money over the pavement. It was a bit like rock-climbing, Lunch Money thought of the cables and chains she'd seen at a rock-climbing exhibit when the World's Fair came through New York. She was rock-climbing without rocks.

It was an awfully good thing she had some upper body strength in her, or Lunch Money felt certain she would have plummeted to her doom. As it was, she felt the skin on her hands tearing against the round wound rope, and the muscles in her arms screamed with pain. She slowly, agonizingly pulled herself up the thirty feet, aided by the occasional jutting brick and the three newsgirls hoisting her up like a fish being reeled in on a fishing line.

By some miracle, she made it. Lunch Money eagerly grabbed a hold on the bars outside the windows, and stepped onto the narrow sill. Reaching through the bars, she made a fist, with the intent to rap smartly on the glass to get the boys' attention. Evidently she had already attracted someone's attention, because the window slid open before she could knock.

"What happened ta not gettin' involved with any newsie business?"

"So I changed me mind." Lunch Money shrugged, surprised to see that Spot's expression was not mockingly and smug, like she'd expected, but cold and angry.

"Yeah, okay, Lunch." He rolled his eyes, starting to shut the window. "Just get outta heah befoah ya get caught." Lunch Money made to stop him from closing the pane, but her footing slipped and she started to fall backwards. The newsgirls below her gasped, and Lunch Money herself uttered a surprised cry. Spot grabbed her arm, pulling her forward so that she could regain her balance. They looked at each other, shaken and pale-faced.

By this time the other newsboys had noticed the scene at the window, despite the Manhattan newsies' determination to ignore Spot. Since the conversation Racetrack and Spot had had the other night, the seven Manhattan newsboys had given Spot the cold shoulder—even Jack, to Spot's surprise. Of all the newsies, he had expected Jack would at least remain on friendly terms with him. But Jack was just as distant as Racetrack and Mush. The Manhattan boys were convinced that Spot had taken advantage of Lunch Money, and they were all thoroughly horrified by the thought. Still, when they did finally look toward the window, they were astonished.

"Lunch!"

"Lunch Money!"

"I knew ya weren't gonna leave the newsies fa'eveh!"

"What the hell ya wearin', Lunch?"

"Heya, fellas!" Lunch Money grinned at her friends, "Ya wanna help me get these bars off?" She pulled a short, narrow crowbar from a deep pocket of her skirt and passed it through the bars. The bars were secured both inside and out, and it took several minutes to completely disengage the bars from the brink wall. They pulled the metal contraption into the dorm, and Lunch Money climbed inside after it. She was out of breath, her hands were still bleeding from gripping the rope and her arms were so sore, they felt like they were going to fall off. The instant she was inside the dorm, her friends barraged her with hugs and excited greetings. Lunch Money enthusiastically returned the greetings—it seemed like ages since she'd seen them. But the one person she'd really wanted to talk to was Spot. Lunch Money thought she owed him a-- well, not exactly an apology, but she knew she owed him _something_ after what she'd done. She hoped she would get a chance once her friends had cleared off a bit. No such luck.

"It's Snydeh!" One of the other refuge boys hissed from his bunk. The Manhattan boys quickly set the bars against the window, hoping to create the illusion that the barred window had never been tampered with.

"Lunch, get down!" Jack ordered. She ducked behind the boys, who tightened into a phalanx formation around her.

Snyder made his entrance. He looked happier than anyone could remember the old man looking, which almost certainly spelled trouble for the newsies. The silver lining to his obvious glee was that he was too distracted to notice either the near-destroyed window, or the girl crouching just out of sight.

"Conlon. Sullivan." He beckoned maliciously to the boys. Jack and Spot stepped forward, both giving Snyder cold, defiant looks. "I'd like to have a little chat with you boys. So would the magistrate." He clapped them around the shoulders in a false show of fatherly feeling. Jack didn't even react; he just stared straight ahead, obviously trying not to let his temper get the better of him. Spot shrugged Snyder's hand off his shoulder with a scowl. Snyder spared Spot a menacing glance then led the two boys from the room.

"Spot—!" Kid Blink clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her cry. Lunch Money glared at him and jerked away. She knew she should have kept her mouth shut. Lunch Money had been so close, had even been talking to Spot, and she hadn't told him. Now who knew when she'd see him next?

"Ya wanna get caught, Lunch? What's a' matteh wit' ya?"

"Listen, Lunch." Racetrack said seriously, "You don't hafta worry about Conlon no more."

"Whaddya mean?" Lunch Money stared at her brother, confused. "Whaddya mean, I don't hafta worry about Spot?"

"We told him off." Mush spoke up, his arms folded angrily. Lunch Money bewilderment must have read on her face, because Racetrack sighed.

"Lunch Money, we know what happened. Wit' you and Spot."

"Ya do?" Lunch Money bit her lip. She supposed the truth about her and Spot would come out sometime, but she didn't want to face her friends right now—Nix, Ritz and Rodeo were still waiting outside. They were sort of on a clock.

"Yeah." Racetrack nodded, "Spot's scum, Lunch; we told him off, and we ain't talkin' ta him anymore. Don't worry."

"This isn't the place ta—" Lunch Money changed direction mid-sentence. "What? Why ain't ya talkin' ta Spot? He didn't do nuttin', I'm the one who left; I'm the one who—wait. What didja think happened between us?"

The newsboy all glanced at each other awkwardly. They didn't really want to explain such a delicate subject outright. _Oh dear Lord._ Lunch Money inwardly rolled her eyes, _Could Racetrack get anymore paranoid? He thinks Spot raped me, doesn't he? They all think that's what happened. _

"Racetrack, you gotta be kiddin' me." Lunch Money shook her head, "You thought he'd actually take advantage of me like that?"

Racetrack looked chagrined. "Well, it shoah looked like that's what happened. I mean, you runnin' off and everything? And c'mon, Lunch, I saw him kiss ya."

There was an instant uproar at his words.

"What?"

"You _kissed?_"

Lunch Money glared at Racetrack mutinously. Her brother sure knew how to screw things up. "Al'right, get this straight, ya bummehs. I'se neveh been raped. Not by thugs in some alley, coirtainly not by Spot. He didn't do nuttin' bad enough fa' you'se ta stop talkin' ta him. So, can we just drop it? We gotta go anyway. Ritz an' Nix an' Rodeo are waitin' fa us."

"But you'se two _kissed?_"

"I said _drop it_, Mush."

Lunch Money turned back to the window, and moving the bars away from the window once again, she climbed back out. She gave the rope two sharp tugs to let the girls outside know she was coming down, and she began to rappel back down the wall. Lunch Money jumped the last few feet, barely able to keep her feet upon landing.

"Sorry, that took so long, guys, I tried ta hurry, but that bastard Snydeh was hangin' around." She said, turning around to face the other newsgirls. Nix wasn't there though. Neither was Ritz or Rodeo. Snyder stood in their place, sneering. Behind him was a group of coppers, looking stern and intimidating. Lunch Money felt her insides lurch unpleasantly. The air vanished from her lungs. She had just been caught.


	24. Facing Her Fears

The next morning, Lunch Money was awakened far earlier than she cared for. She rolled over, the blast of Snyder's shrill whistle still echoing in her ears. Her heart sank when she realized where she was. Feivel leapt off of the bunk above Lunch Money. She gave Lunch Money a small smile and began dressing. Lunch Money felt even worse. Feivel and Tease had been caught too. She pulled herself out of bed with difficulty, and dressed as well. Around her, the newsgirls sat up too, all looking very dejected.

"What happened last night?" Lunch Money asked Nix carefully.

"What does it look like happened like night, Higgins?" Ritz snapped, ignoring the fact that Lunch Money was addressing Nix. "Ya wasted too much time up theah wit' the boys, and befoah we could get outta theah, the bulls found us out." She sneered, "Listen, I know it must a' been an excellent chance fa you an' Spot ta get reacquainted, but ya gotta remembeh when ya's on a mission."

Lunch Money glared at Ritz. In the last couple of days, Lunch Money wondered whether Ritz had changed towards her. She had been much nicer to Lunch Money—or, if not nicer, at least not as blatantly horrible to her. Leave it to Ritz; as soon as Lunch Money and Spot were once again in the same vicinity, she was back to being the bitch of the Brooklyn newgirls.

"Hey, I tried ta hurry," Lunch Money argued, "But Snydeh was hangin' around. I didn't wanna get caught."

"An' yet heah ya are."

Lunch Money didn't get a chance to respond, for at that moment, there was an impatient sounding knock at the door. The girls of the refuge hurried to finished dressing and a minute later, the door opened. Snyder walked in, in his usual hoity-toity manner.

"I'll be needing to have a word with Higgins, Barkley, Cohen, Matthews, Jackson, Kim and Hendricks." The Brooklyn newsgirls glanced at each other nervously. 'Having a word' with Snyder only meant one thing. They were going to court. They were going to be tried by some horrifically biased judge, and they would be found guilty. Lunch Money knew that's how it would all happen. It was the way of the world; the rich guys got the big chair in the important office, and the street rats got the jail cells.

The girls followed Snyder out of dorm. Several policemen joined them, assumedly to keep the girls in line and make sure they didn't run off. Not that they had anywhere to run. Snyder escorted them into the courtyard outside the refuge, and then into a horse drawn carriage. The seven girls, plus Snyder sat uncomfortably squished together, heading toward the courthouse. Lunch Money surprised herself by not feeling nervous at all. It was a forgone conclusion. Why even bother with the mockery of a trial Snyder planned to put on? Why not just shut the girls away for the rest of their natural lives? No trial, no fuss.

The carriage came to a stop, pulled up next the impossibly huge courthouse. Snyder led the girls out of the coach, and they scaled the marble front steps and passed through the handsome mahogany doors.

"Come," Snyder summoned the newsgirls imperiously, "This way, into the courtroom. And I think you will all be pleased to see some of your friends in there." He ushered them in. Lunch Money looked around curiously. It was her first time in the courtroom, shocking for a girl with such delinquent tendencies. Racetrack had always done his best to keep her out of trouble, so Lunch Money was fortunate enough to avoid any real trouble with the law, up until this point.

At the front of the room, a familiar group was clustered around the judge's stand. Her friends were there, along with the other Brooklyn newsies with enough guts not to sell out their friends. Spot was among them as well. Lunch Money's heart jumped up to her throat when she caught sight of him. Making a split-second decision, she nimbly ducked under Snyder's arm. She ran straight through the small crowd of newsboys, not even caring that her brother and all her friends were watching. Lunch Money reached Spot, wrapping him in a hug that practically knocked him over. Spot looked rather surprised at this, but quite pleased.

"Spot, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" She whispered, reveling in the feel of Spot's arms around her once again. This was it. She had to tell him now. Lunch Money had put this off for far too long; she had hoped in the beginning that it would never come to this. But now Lunch Money wanted nothing more than to get this secret off her chest. Her heart had suffered enough in the past months without this weighing her down.

"Whaddya doin' heah, Lunch?" Spot asked, now looking into her face anxiously.

"We came ta rescue ya."

"Well done." Spot rolled eyes.

"Spot—" Lunch Money began, but Spot cut her off.

"Why didn't ya get outta theah aftah me an' Jack left? I told ya shoulda gotten out befoah Snydeh caught ya..."

"_Spot!_" Lunch Money said again, this time with much less patience. Spot broke off, his scolding interrupted. Lunch Money's voice had sounded urgent, and Spot knew from her tone that he should listen to whatever it was she had to say. And she had to say this. If she didn't, Lunch Money knew she would never forgive herself. Lunch Money looked him square in the eye, and said clearly, grinning as though she had only just realized it:

"I love you."

At first Spot just stared at her, looking like he hardly dared to believe what she had just said. Then he drew her into a deep kiss, much to the astonishment of the newsboys surrounding them, and to the consternation of the various officials in the courtroom. Lunch Money pulled Spot closer, and she thought she heard wolf whistles from the newsboys. And then Lunch Money could have sworn she heard Mush's voice smugly whispering to Blink, "See? Told ya so."

Lunch Money really wasn't sure of anything that might have been happening around her; she was gone. She was a million miles away from the courtroom. Maybe somewhere close to heaven.

The reactions of the newsies were as varied and colorful as their nicknames. Racetrack looked on awkwardly, guilt starting to form in the pit of his stomach. So Spot had been telling the truth after all. Mush, Blink and Crutchy were cheering excitedly, whereas Jack and Boots were positively dumbfounded. Ritz was fuming, of course. She was angrier than anyone had ever seen her. The thought that Lunch Money, the unsophisticated, horrid tomboy had been the one to win over Spot Conlon was more than she could bear.

Snyder looked around at the court officials, livid that none of them had made to put a stop this unsuitable display. The grown-ups of the courtroom (who should have been showing some authority) had come to a standstill. Nothing like this had ever happened in their chambers. Snyder stepped forward, trying to break up the crowd of newsies encircling Spot and Lunch Money.

"That's enough, you hooligans, this is a court of justice; I demand you keep order—"

Spot and Lunch Money broke apart, visibly elated by their own daring, and completely oblivious to everything around them. Neither spoke; they just stood close together, their fingers interlocked and their eyes drinking in each other's faces. It was surreal. Spot couldn't count how many times he'd imagined a scene like this. He thought back to first meeting Lunch Money, to his fear upon realizing his feelings for her, to his determination to keep it all a secret. Was this really happening? He was afraid he might wake up any moment.

Lunch Money couldn't believe it either. Less than a month ago, she had vowed to never let any of her friends know how she felt about Spot. She had told herself she wouldn't get mixed up in this like some prissy little girl. She had been too afraid. But as Lunch Money looked into Spot's gorgeous eyes, she realized that she was no longer frightened.

"Spot?" Lunch Money breathed, "I am sorry. I'm so sorry it took me this long ta tell ya that, I—"

"It's okay." Spot shrugged, smirking adorably, "I sorta already knew."

Lunch Money was rather taken aback by this. She had been horrible to Spot; how could he have figured out that she was in love with him. "How'd ya know?"

"C'mon, Lunch, we've had this conversation befoah." His smirk broadened into a true smile, "Ya got no pokeh face."

Lunch Money's laugh was cut short by a firm hand on her shoulder. Snyder roughly pulled her out of the circle of newsboys, away from Spot. The warden had had quite enough of this nonsense. Lunch Money tried to jerk away from Snyder, insisting she could walk herself, but the man pinned her arm behind her back, and twisted it painfully, dragging her back to stand with the other newsgirls.

"Now that this tramp is finished with that unseemly display," Snyder growled at the newsgirls in a low voice, "I have a proposal for you ladies. These boys will be tried for assault, resisting arrest, vandalism, and harboring other fugitives, among many misdeeds. You will either be tried with them, to your certain incarceration, or you get out of it." He paused, watching the girls' reactions. Lunch Money, Nix and Feivel glowered fiercely at him, but the other four looked vaguely interested.

"If you willingly sign a statement that we've already written for you, confirming that these boys in front of you were indeed involved with criminal actions, you will be granted amnesty and set free."

Ritz Barkley spoke up first, not even hesitating, "I'll do it. I'll sign whateveh ya gimme."

"_What?"_ Lunch Money demanded, "Ya traitoh! Ya whore!"

Ritz didn't even dignify Lunch Money with an answer, and just shot her a malevolent grin. Tease and Rodeo followed Ritz's example, to the newsies horror, and the three girls were called to the front podium for their signatures. And then, to everyone's surprise, a fourth voice quietly sounded in the courtroom.

"I'll sign too." It was Starboard. Quiet little Starboard, the girl everyone liked, but never paid much attention to. She was selling them out.

"Star!" Nix gasped, shocked that one of her best friends should turn out to be a traitor like Ritz. Starboard merely shrugged.

"Sorry, Nix. All the newsies are goin' down anyway, whedder I testify or not. At least this way I'll keep outta jail, maybe go get a real job and forget all this useless fightin'. The newsies is oveh. Why bodder tryin' fix what we have no control oveh?"

Every newsie in the courtroom knew Starboard was speaking the truth. But, though they could see Starboard's reasoning, none of them could forgive the girls for selling out. It was the ultimate crime against newsies. Since the newsstands first hit the streets of Manhattan, the newsie brotherhood had crumbled. The disease had spread to Brooklyn, and now all that remained was a handful of street rats willing to fight for their rights.

"Sure you girls aren't interested?" Snyder asked the last three newsgirls, Feivel, Nix and Lunch Money.

"Neveh." Lunch Money snarled. Feivel and Nix nodded, their jaws set.

"Shame. I suppose you girls will be joining your friends in the refuge." He steered the girls to the front of the room to join the newsboys, who greeted the newsgirls gratefully. Two of the Brooklyn boys (Mezzo and Sweeps) hugged Nix, welcoming her into the fold; Kid Blink ruffled little Feivel's hair, giving her his famously bright smile. Spot slid his hand into Lunch Money palm, lacing their fingers together. They exchanged grim expressions, knowing what verdict would come.

The judge banged his gavel, asserting himself for the first time in that session. The newsies carefully watched the proceedings of the court, Snyder presented piece after piece of evidence and information against them. According to the laws of New York, all eighteen of them were dangerous delinquents that should be kept away from civilized society for as long as possible. And even though the verdict was exactly as everyone had expected, the hearts of the newsies still sank when the sentence was passed. Guilty.


	25. Every Friend a Brother

Ironically, Spot had never been happier. Sure, he and his few remaining friends were trapped in the refuge. He would probably never work as a newsie again, and it even seemed unlikely that he would set foot outside the walls of the refuge before he was twenty-one. But she loved him. She'd said it, right there in the courtroom. Lunch Money loved Spot. Spot was convinced he could die right then and have lived a full life.

It was later that night, just before bed. Most of the newsboys were looking glum at the results of the morning's trial. Spot observed the exanimate newsboys from his bunk, lying propped against his pillow, comfortably daydreaming. One hardly needed to wonder about whom those daydreams involved.

"Hey."

Racetrack sat down on the bunk across from Spot's. Spot sat up quickly, banging his forehead against the bottom of the upper bunk. He rubbed his head; it was still tender and bruised from his arrest the other night.

"Hey." He said warily.

It struck him as very odd that he should be so nervous about talking to Racetrack—Racetrack, of all people! The little smart-aleck Italian kid from Jack Kelly's gang. Ordinarily, Racetrack would the one quaking in his at the thought of having a serious conversation with Spot, rather than the other way around. Of course, that was back when Racetrack was just a fellow newsie, a friend. Things had changed. Racetrack just seen Spot make out with his little sister for the second time in less than three weeks. Things had definitely changed. Doing anything with a friend's sister was rarely a good idea. Davey and Jack were a good example. They used to be the best of friends, but once Jack and Sarah's relationship fell apart, so did the friendship between Dave and Jack. Spot braced himself.

"So." Racetrack began awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Sorry."

He paused a moment, giving Spot the opportunity to speak, if he desired to. When Spot did not take advantage of the silence (as he really had no idea what to say to Racetrack, and was wondering whether he had heard an actual apology come out of his mouth.) Race continued.

"Lunch Money, uh, talked wit' us the otheh night… Explained some things." He shifted uncomfortably, "So, I guess I was wrong about ya…Ya really were tellin' the truth, weren't ya?"

Spot nodded, "I was."

"Gawd…" Racetrack shook his head, at last appreciating the irony in their situation. "Okay, so _you_ are in love wit' _Lunch Money?_" He laughed.

Of all the girls in the wide world, his baby sister, tough-and-tumble tomboy of NYC, was the girl who finally landed Spot Conlon. It wasn't Ritz Barkley who'd finally melted his heart… _It wasn't Mush either! _Racetrack thought suddenly, as a most amusing memory from several weeks ago resurfaced. It was _Lunch Money _who had won over Spot. It was impressive. It was unexpected. It was sweet and romantic. It was likely to make Racetrack nauseous if he thought about it much longer. Older brothers should never think about their younger sister's love lives too much. It's too unsettling.

"Geez, if I eveh get used ta the idea of you'se two ta'gether, it's gonna be awful hard not ta make fun of ya." Racetrack came close to cracking a joke for the first time in a very long time.

"Is it an idea ya think you'll eveh be able ta get used ta?" Spot asked earnestly, aware that most of the Manhattan boys were watching the conversation from across the room, straining to hear what Spot was saying, "Me an' Lunch Money? Are ya gonna be okay wit' that?"

Racetrack exhaled slowly. Would he be okay with this? Racetrack wasn't sure. His little sister and _Spot Conlon_? It seemed like a nightmare. But, if they were serious about being together, Racetrack knew he couldn't stand in their way. Racetrack studied Spot. The boy's face was anxious; ears pricked for Racetrack's response. The idiot boy really was in love with his stupid sister. It was like a sign of the apocalypse.

"Yeah." Racetrack said finally, nodding, "Yeah, I think I'll be okay. Just do me a favoh?"

"What?"

"If it all woirks out between you'se two… When all'a us boys are hangin' out, discussing goils, ya know," Spot raised an eyebrow knowingly. Racetrack was of course referring to the evening washroom conversations that often revolved around which boy scored with what girl. Conversations that were sometimes fairly graphic. "Please, _oh please,_ fa' the love of Gawd, neveh let me heah any details about you and me sistah."

Spot looked relieved. That was a favor he'd been happy to oblige. He smirked. So did Racetrack.

"Done." Spot said, laughing, partially with relief, partially at Racetrack's second almost-joke. Racetrack laughed too. The boys were just glad to be friends again; sure, it would take a while to get over the awkwardness of Spot seeing Racetrack's younger sister, but they had definitely started to make things right again. Racetrack spat into the palm of his hand. Spot did the same. They clasped hands firmly, shaking in a gesture of finally coming to an understanding.

* * *

Christmas passed with little to-do and extravagance. The year 1901 was brought in with a similar apathy. It was difficult to find any cheer in the traditionally celebratory season when they were all trapped in such a grim institution. Januarys always seem bleak and hopeless, but the first week of that year was almost unbearable. 

Under Snyder's hawk eye, the boys and girls in the refuge were strictly segregated. Thus the three Brooklyn girls had only each other to seek comfort in. But even that was difficult, as every day was spent performing chores or fulfilling punishments in austere silence. Nix, Feivel and Lunch Money were only able to commiserate their misfortune after they were settled into their bunks for the night. Apart from the awful slop served twice a day at mealtimes, the only thing that kept Lunch Money alive was Spot. They never had the opportunity to speak, but occasionally, they would see one another and the looks that passed between them vitalized the two newsies more than the horrid mess hall food ever did.

While Lunch Money carried the dirty laundry carts to the laundry room she'd pass Spot, polishing the wooden floor with some of the other boys, and he would smile at her. When Snyder was lecturing Spot for starting a soapsuds fight when he should have been washing dishes, Lunch Money happened to walk through the kitchen to clear away the last dinner dishes. She came up behind Snyder, just outside his line of sight and mimicked the warden's fury in an outrageous, mocking mime, and Spot would try not to laugh.

It was those brief connections that made their existence in the refuge worthwhile. Not to say that the newsies had abandoned all hope of a getaway. But security had been tightened yet again, and there wasn't enough opportunity for anyone to slip off without being caught. And the remaining eighteen newsies refused to escape unless the entire gang could be freed too. As much as they wanted to find a way to escape the bars of the refuge, the newsies were hitting dead ends everywhere and it was starting to seem impossible that they would ever be free.

It was a awfully good thing that the eighteen newsies inside the walls of the refuge were not the only ones concerned about their freedom. It was true, the newsies were not quite so alone as they thought. The unshakable brotherhood of street rats that Jack had once so fervently believed in appeared to have crumbled in the last few months. But even as the other Manhattan newsies, and the traitorous Brooklyn newsies were scattered about the great city of New York, try as they might, they could not forget. _Once and for all, every kid is our friend, every friend a brother.

* * *

_

"Nah, lemme do it." Skittery whispered, taking the rope out of David's hands. "I think I owe it ta them. 'Sides, I wanna see their faces."

The tall, wiry, pink-clad boy slipped the rope around his middle, and carefully lowered himself over the edge of the building. David gripped the rope tightly, gently lowering Skittery to the window. Skittery rapped three times against the glass. The window slid open, and a boy of about twelve greeted him.

"Hey, Skittery, long time no see."

"'Crimony, Ten Pin, you'se still heah? It's been what, t'ree years since ya been arrested?"

Ten Pin shrugged. "I guess, ya kinda lose track a' time in heah."

"I'd imagine." Skittery said airily, "Listen, can I talk ta Jack? An' Racetrack? An' any otheh newsies ya might have around heah?"

"I'll get 'em fa' ya."

Skittery grinned widely as the boys he had requested approached the windows, their jaws hanging down around their knees. They were shocked. What was Skittery the Scabber doing here?

"Heya fellas." Was Skittery's response to the overwhelming daze that befell the other boys.

"Skittery, whaddya doin' heah?" Racetrack demanded, sneering slightly. He hadn't forgotten the last time he'd seen Skittery. The damn grafter had gotten Racetrack arrested last time the two boys made contact.

"Ain't just me." Skittery was almost beaming. Most unusual for the infamously "glum and dumb" young man. "Know who's on the roof?"

"Who?"

"Dave."

"Is that Dave?" Jack demanded, leaning as far out the window as the constricting bars would permit.

"Shh!" They heard The Walkin' Mouth hiss from someplace far above their heads.

"Yeah, an' that ain't all." Skittery told them, "Dutchy's up there too. An' Bumlets, an' Snitch, an' Snipeshooteh, an' Pie Eateh, an' Tumbleh an' Swifty an' everybody. And know who's down coverin' the ground?" Skittery didn't even wait for any of them make a guess, "Most a' Brooklyn."

Spot looked very satisfied with his boys. He folded his arms imperiously, acting as though he knew all along that his newsies weren't sell-outs. The Manhattan newsies were equally cheered by this news. With numbers like these, a breakout was actually feasible. Certainly not a secret, silent breakout, but an all-out, overwhelming jailbreak.

"Whatcha waitin' fa'?" Skittery asked impatiently, "Get ya stuff! Let's get outta heah!"


	26. Once and For All

_Author's Note: I suppose one might think that this is the last chapter, as it is the title chapter. It isn't. Aren't I tricky? This is the penultimate chapter (Isn't penultimate a fantasic word?)... I'm the process of editing the final chapter, and it should be out sometime this next week. It's sort of weird, being so close to finished. I've never finished a multiple-chapter story in my life, so it's a big deal... Uh yeah. Enjoy._

_--Schroe Dawson

* * *

_

Lunch Money was already drifting in that curious place between waking and sleeping. Her thoughts were starting to blur into premature, half-formed dreams, but a noise pulled her back to consciousness. A tapping sound. She was reminded fleetingly of the night Feivel had chucked rocks against her window. The tapping was followed by a loud clanging sound. Lunch Money sat up, looking toward the noise. The bars that usually gated the window were lying on the floor. She sprang from her bunk, shaking Feivel and Nix awake as she passed their beds. Lunch Money reached the open window, finding herself face-to-face with Jack.

"Hey, Lunch." He said, "Ready ta go? Get Nix an' Feivel."

"Nix! Feiv!" Lunch Money hissed excitedly to the girls, who were both rubbing their eyes, annoyed at been awakened. "Jack's heah! C'mon, we'se bustin' out!"

This brought Feivel to life immediately, she bounded right out of bed to meet Jack at the window.

"Whoa…" She murmured, awestruck. She wasn't looking at Jack though; she was looking past him, and the courtyard below. Lunch Money followed Feivel's gaze. Her eyes widened at the sight. Street rats, newsies, crawling all over the grounds, baiting the guards and generally running rampant in a selfless diversion.

Nix reached the window, taking in the situation silently. Jack wasted no more time now that the girls were present. They were on a clock; there was only so long before the bulls wised up and trapped more street rats.

"Lunch? Wanna go foirst?" Jack held out his arms for Lunch Money to climb into. She obliged; she gingerly stepped onto the window ledge and then shifting her weight so that she fell into Jack's arms. For one terrifying moment, she thought she might fall, but Jack adjusted their position and called up to the boys on the roof.

"Okay, bring us up!"

"Wouldn't it be easieh if we just climbed ourselves?" Lunch Money whispered, as they were raised higher and higher toward the roof.

"Maybe." Jack shrugged, "But it was the only way we could get Crutchy outta heah. And ya know Crutchy. He ain't gonna be carried fa' nuttin. Davey planned ahead, and insisted that _everyone_ have ta be carried up ta the roof, includin' Crutchy. It's safeh this way anway."

"Dave's heah?" Lunch Money was startled by this information.

Their conversation was cut short however, as they reached the roof. Hanging just over the edge of the building, Jack gave Lunch Money a boost and she stretched to grab hold of the eaves. She swung herself up, thinking she had enough momentum to pull herself up. But she miscalculated. Lunch Money Let out a frightened cry as her grip slipped. The boys waiting for her on the roof rushed to her aid. Mush steadied her quickly, and Spot grabbed her free hand. The two newsboys pulled her onto the roof; where Lunch Money was happy to be standing solidly on her own two feet once again.

"I could a' made it meself." She claimed indignantly. Mush just rolled his eyes and went to help David reel in Jack, who was now cradling Feivel below them. Spot rolled his eyes as well, but didn't let go of her hand. Instead, he brought it up to his lips and kissed her knuckles softly, a slight smirk playing across his mouth.

"No ya couldn't a'."

"I know." Lunch Money admitted grudgingly.

They waited with baited breath as Jack and Nix hoisted themselves onto the roof. They were all out of the building. Now it was just a matter of getting over the walls without being caught. Twin flashes of light grabbed Lunch Money's eye, and she could see Specs and Dutchy, each stationed at opposite ends of the roof, holding lanterns aloft in a signal to the Brooklynites below. The boys on the ground heeded their signal and pulled back, dodging the cops and disappearing into the night.

"Come on!" David whispered, leading the newsies away from the roof's edge. They reached an iron ladder, like that of which found on a fire escape, leading down to a lower level. The newsies scurried down the ladder, trying to find the balance between the desire to move quickly, and the need to go silently. Lunch Money realized halfway down the ladder that she'd stopped breathing. She exhaled, trying to calm her jittery nerves. It might have been the bitterly cold January air that had her shaking, but Lunch Money doubted it.

Lunch Money was surprised to see who was waiting for them at the base of the ladder. It was Snitch. Even in the dark, there was no mistaking his silhouette. He waved the other newsies toward him.

"Heah," He had just finished securing the end of a long length of rope to one of the metal gutters. "Heah, Jack, just straight down, then it's about a seven yard sprint t'rough the back entrance."

Snitch handed Jack the rope. Jack didn't even hesitate before beginning his hurried descent. Kid Blink went next, followed by Mush, then Boots and Dutchy. The tension in the atmosphere redoubled when Crutchy stepped forward.

"Crutchy, are you sure--?" Dave began, looking worried.

"Yes. I can do it." Crutchy answered shortly. He tossed his crutch to Mush, who caught it deftly, and he grabbed the rope. The gimp eased himself over the side, rappelling using only his good foot; the crippled appendage hung helplessly. No one spoke through the entire, slow, cautious decline. There was a collective gasp when Crutchy neared the ground; he slipped, losing his rhythm. Blink and Jack ran forward to assist him, and between the three boys' efforts, Crutchy was safely delivered to the ground.

"Hey, Lunch," Spot said in an undertone, as they waited for the newsies ahead of them to climb down. "What changed ya mind?"

"What?"

"I neveh got a chance ta ask ya: what changed ya mind?" Spot asked nonchalantly, "Why'd ya come back?"

"D'ya really think this is the time to discuss it?" Lunch Money said, glancing at their surrounding significantly. A desperate flight for their freedom didn't seem like the best time to pause and have any sort of conversation.

"Theah's still more than a dozen boys that haftah climb down. We got a little time." Spot shrugged, looking around at the group of newsies still waiting on the roof.

"Nix an' Feivel an' the otheh goils came ta get me." She said slowly, "An' they told me that all a' ya were in trouble. I couldn't leave you'se ta Snydeh." Spot nodded, like that was a satisfactory answer. But Lunch Money wasn't done.

"I was scared sumptin' would happen ta ya. That scared me more than anything I eveh was scared about befoah." Her dark eyes roved over his face, "I love you, Spot. I had ta tell ya in case sumptin' _did_ happen."

They were both quiet for a time, while Double Time lowered himself to the ground. They didn't need to say anything else. Neither had any secrets about how they felt about the other. Everything was finally out in the open. Spot and Lunch Money had come to terms with their hearts, and they were both happy with their choices. Once and for all, they were in it together. No more hiding or lying or running away.

It was Lunch Money's turn to make the descent to the ground. Looking down at her destination, Lunch Money felt a little woozy. It was awfully high. She noticed most of the boys had already run for it. Only Jack and Kid Blink remained to help. Jack had directed the others to meet in a locale far away from the refuge.

Lunch Money, Spot, David and Racetrack were the last four on the roof. Lunch Money took the rope of David, and edged toward the perimeter. She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Spot. He leaned into her ear and whispered, so only she could hear:

"I love you too."

And he kissed her on the cheek, before letting her go. She spared him a small smile before disappearing over the edge of the building.

"When did all this happen?" David muttered to Racetracked, grinning. The last time David had seen Spot and Lunch Money together was the very first time they'd met. The day when it took Jack, David and Racetrack to keep Lunch Money from pounding Spot into the ground. It was no wonder Dave was bemused by this turn of events.

Racetrack groaned at the question. "Dave, ya got no idea what I've been t'rough the last coupla' months. It's been hell."

David laughed. Spot and Racetrack didn't.

* * *

It had been a long time since all of the Manhattan newsies had held council. Breathless from outrunning the bulls, the newsies finally came to rest in a dark, hidden alleyway across town from the refuge.

"This is great!" Jack cried, once he'd caught his breath. No one had seen him so enthused since the strike of '99. "Now that you boys is back, we can really take Pulitzeh! With our numbehs, we'll be unstoppable!"

Dave and Itey looked at each other; Jack was reacting exactly as they'd feared. The other boys looked uncomfortable too.

"Jack," David began in a very patient tone, "We can't fight Pulitzer anymore. We can't help you. We've all got jobs now." At this, Jack glared at Skittery, Snipeshooter and Snitch, who looked guilty.

"But what about the newsies?"

"Jack, there aren't newsies anymore, you've got to let it go." David said firmly. The other newsies watched, looking concerned. Everyone hated when Jack and David fought. It as if they were watching their parents fight. It was never fun for anyone.

"So nuttin's changed wit' any a' ya?" Jack asked, looking disappointed. The disappointment was very brief, and instantly replaced with anger.

"Fine." He spat, "Then we'se betteh be off ta Brooklyn." He looked hopefully at the handful of Brooklynites and the few Manhattan newsies who were still willing to fight for Jack. For their rights.

It seemed amazing to Lunch Money that after all these weeks, after being arrested, after escaping the refuge, that they were now right back at square one. It was just like the day in early November, when the seven Manhattan newsies had trekked into Brooklyn, without the aid of anyone else in the world. If anything, they were further from their goal than they started. They weren't any nearer to eradicating newsstands. The delivery service was still going strong. And now they were escaped convicts, with the bulls after them. That was sort of a step backwards.

But there was no point in bemoaning their misfortunes. Before they could truly evalute the damages, they had to have a meeting with Brooklyn.


	27. The End of an Era

_Author's Note: Wow. Last chapter. I'm sort of sad it's over.Well, another thank you to everyone who reviewed; reviews always make my day. I hope you enjoy the ending.. it's a little corny, but who doesn't love a cute bittersweet ending? Enjoy._

_--Schroe Dawson

* * *

_

They reached the pier. Spot knew that's where his boys would be, and he wasted no time in leading his friends there. As he predicted, all the Brooklyn newsies were waiting at the dock. Lunch Money shuddered as they walked across the wooden planks. A blast of chilled wind stung her cheeks and made her eyes water. It must have been past midnight, and the temperature was dropping with every step the newsies took. The rushing water beneath their feet looked deathly cold and perilous. With all the snow beginning to melt, the river was muddy and overflowing onto the usually dry banks. It was a cloudy night; moonless, so that it was almost impossible to make out the newsies waiting at the end of the pier.

"Hey boys." Spot greeted his followers, stepping forward, "All a' ya did good. I'se proud a' ya. We'se was all pretty worried when it looked like you'se was sidin' wit' Snydeh—"

"Who said we ain't sidin' wit' Snydeh?" One boy asked, interrupting Spot. Spot did a double take. That had never happened before. That was the first thing you learned whie living in Brooklyn: if Spot Conlon is talking, it's always in your best interest in listening.

"Look, Conlon," Another boy said, hostility flavoring his tone, "We'se already talked in oveh. We agreed ta help Manhattan bust you'se guys outta the refuge, but this is as far as it goes. We'se done takin' ordehs from ya, Spot."

Automatically, Spot's hand flew to grip his cane, his expression fierce and unforgiving. The seven Manhattan newsies shrank back, giving him room, wary of his temper.

"Excuse me?" He growled menacingly. The Brooklynites flinched. They'd almost forgotten exactly how intimidating Spot was.

"Ya hoird us." In the darkness, Spot couldn't identify who was speaking. It didn't seem to matter though; all the newsies clearly felt the same, "We can't beat Pulitzeh and Hearst. They'se got us. Now we'se hidin' from the law thanks ta you."

"Yeah." Another kid jumped in. It was Double Time, one of the boys who _hadn't_ sold out for Snyder. Even those kids were against Spot now. "It was different befoah. We didn't mind fightin' fa' ya when we knew you'se was puttin' Brooklyn foirst. Now it's different."

"I'se always put Brooklyn foirst!" Spot claimed indignantly. Everyone knew, that of all the borough leaders of New York, no one cared more about his territory than Spot Conlon. He'd devoted his life to keeping the street rats of Brooklyn in order. "How can any a' ya's say different?" His temper, which he'd been so desperately trying to hold back, was starting to get the better of him.

Double Time shook his head, "Nuh-uh. Think about it, Conlon. Last time we was in trouble, what'd ya do? Ya went straight off ta Manhattan... lookin' fa' _her_." The other newsies made adamant noises of agreement.

Spot's breath caught in his throat. _Her_. Lunch Money. They were right. They were absolutely right. The newsies of Brooklyn depended on Spot to make them his priority. That was the price of power; Spot had never had a life of his own, his life _was _Brooklyn. Keeping things in order, making sure his boys were okay. A conversation crept into his memory, miserably torturing Spot with the irony.

"_Ya take everything too poirsonally." _He remembered telling Lunch Money "…_Ya let personal feelin's interfere with everything ya do."_

That was his mistake. He allowed personal feelings get in the way of business. He should never have gone to Manhattan to talk to Lunch Money. He should have stayed in Brooklyn where he belonged—he was needed in Brooklyn. He'd neglected his duties. Spot suddenly remembered why he had been so afraid when he first realized he was in love with Lunch Money. Why he had been so terrified. This was why. Losing power, losing respect. He should have remembered that he couldn't have Brooklyn and Lunch Money. One of them had to come first.

Lunch Money closed her eyes, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks. This was her fault. Spot's gang didn't trust that he would fulfill his obligations as their leader. She couldn't blame them. As the leader of Brooklyn, Spot couldn't afford to have a girl distracting him; he couldn't just flit off to Manhattan because of a relationship crisis. Lunch Money felt she should have known it was all too good to last. She should have stuck to her denial. She and Spot should have continued the flimsy charade of hating each other. It was easier. If Lunch Money had followed through with her original plan of ignoring her feelings, she doubted she would hurt this much now.

"We was willin' ta fight fa' a leadeh when we knew he'd do anything fa' Brooklyn." Double Time told Spot seriously, "Now we ain't so sure."

"You'se…" Spot was having trouble believing what he was hearing, "You'se want me ta choose?"

The Brooklyn newsies nodded.

"Her or us."

It was like an electric current had passed the through the Manhattan newsboys, the way they stiffened and shuffled in concern for Lunch Money. Lunch Money herself didn't even move. She just stood, her eyes still closed and her head bowed. Her heart was pounding her ears. Racetrack laid a bracing hand on her shoulder. This was exactly what he had been concerned about. Since he'd overheard that conversation between Nix and Lunch Money, more than a month ago, Racetrack knew that his sister was the one setting herself up to be hurt. The pier was dead silent, waiting for Spot's answer.

It sounded like an impossible choice. If he left the Brooklynites, the newsies were over. No one else was willing to fight against Pulitzeh and Hearst. The brotherhood would be scattered, even further than before. They would have to go out and find real jobs. The boys that once made up New York's most formidable force would just be apprentices or clerks who happened to have some skill with a slingshot. The future of the newsboys was in his hands.

_Her or us._

Despite the weight of this decision, Spot barely had to think about his answer. He turned his back on Brooklyn and went to stand with the Manhattan newsies. The Manhattan boys shot triumphant grins at each other, anticipating Spot's choice. But Lunch Money hadn't noticed, her face still pointed deliberately toward the ground and eyes shut, keeping back hot, stubborn tears. Spot had reached her side before she realized what was happening. He put his hand under her chin, gently tilting her head out of its bowed position. Then he said, quite clearly, not taking his eyes off of Lunch Money:

"I choose her."

Lunch Money felt at first that she didn't quite dare to believe him. But the next second she thrown her arms around him grinning through the few tears that had insisted on sliding down her cheeks. Spot returned the embrace, feeling unreal. This couldn't be happening. He'd had the chance to continue his rule over Brooklyn, and he walked away. There was no regret in his actions.

The Manhattan boys exchanged displays of glee, bubbling with happiness for Lunch Money. Even Racetrack couldn't help grinning broadly. The Brooklyn newsies watched coldly. But no one paid them any notice. As Lunch Money leaned in to kiss Spot, a peculiar thought crossed her mind. _Mush was right_, she thought, _about bein' in love. Theah ain't a feelin' like it in the woirld.

* * *

_

"So, this really is oveh." Jack said. It wasn't a question. "None a' us are newsies anymore."

The other's nodded mournfully. They were in familiar surroundings. The alley of 86th street. Jack and Spot knew they couldn't take their friends back to the Brooklyn lodging house, not with Snyder working tirelessly to hunt them down. So they returned to the relatively safe alley where the Manhattan gang had spent their first weeks in Brooklyn.

"Yeah." Kid Blink sighed, "We'll haftah get real jobs now, huh?"

"I guess we had ta grow up sometime." Spot shrugged giving Lunch Money a sly smile as he quoted her own words.

"But what are we gonna do now, Jack?" Boots asked, looking frightened at the many obstacles their now-mysterious future might hold.

Jack shrugged, "I dunno, Boots. I guess we'll figure that out tomorrow. Let's get some sleep."

The former newsies made themselves as comfortable as they could in the unforgiving January weather. Spot and Lunch Money were both slumped against the cold brick wall of the alley, trying to nod off. They would need all their strength for the coming days. The days spent dodging the police and finding proper places to sleep.

Spot put his arm around her, and she leaned into his chest, falling asleep almost immediately. So complete was their exhaustion, they forgot to even be self-conscious about so obviously displaying their affections in front of their friends. Lunch Money's subconscious was thankful to for once not be troubled by her fears and problems. Anything that she needed to worry about could be worried about tomorrow. Right now she felt safe and protected.

Lunch Money had spent most of her life being looked after, being protected. Being looked after by Racetrack, by Jack, by Kid Blink. Spot was different, though. It was a nice difference; like Spot was looking after her because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated or irritated at what happened if he didn't keep an eye on her. And that was more than enough comfort for her to sleep through the night.

Spot lay awake a few minutes after Lunch Money had fallen asleep, thinking. He hadn't expected that his reign over Brooklyn to end like this. In the end, a rival newsboy from Midtown or Queens did not supplant him. Spot didn't grow up and retire his post to one of his trusted boys. He had walked away from Brooklyn and newsiehood willingly. He had walked away from the opportunity to give their resistance against Pulitzer another shot. All for some girl. No, not for 'some girl'. For Lunch Money.

Lying there, cradling Lunch Money in his arms, Spot was brought back to that night, so many weeks ago. The first night they'd spent together, after he'd rescued her in that alley; Spot remembered how afraid he had been. He remembered holding Lunch Money, terrified of his feelings and worrying about the consequences of those emotions. Now, everything had changed. Spot was no longer frightened. Maybe he should have been, given what was to come in the following months. The next year would bring it's own set of strife: hiding from Snyder, trying to eat, trying to stay healthy and warm. Not to mention a dangerous set of circumstances that no one could have foreseen. But none of that mattered tonight.

He pulled Lunch Money closer to him, laying his head on top of hers. She was his to take care of now. Spot liked that thought. Right then, a hackneyed (one might even say _mushy_) epiphany struck him: Everything he had ever needed was now sleeping in his arms. He closed his eyes, and soon Spot too had drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_Author's Note: Never fear! Did you really think I was going to end Lunch Money and Spot like that? They'se is just gettin' started! I've given it a lot of thought, and I've decided to write a sequel to "Once and For All". I'm feeling mischeivous, so I'll give you a little teaser summary of "Twice As Deep":_

_While hiding out from the law, Racetrack Higgins meets the one person who could change his life forever. Cassie Arden is funny, gorgeous and sophisticated, but Racetrack knows he could never get a girl like that. But just as the impossible seems attainable, things go awry not only for Racetrack, but for Spot and Lunch Money as well. Because Cassie Arden knows the secrets Spot has been hiding, secrets that finally shead light on his mysterious past._

_The first chapter should be up sometime in the next two weeks, after I organize all the plot details. Hope you check it out!_

_--Schroe Dawson_


End file.
